Mira, I’m a bit drugged right now.
I’m typing with one hand as my arm is in a contraption designed to keep me down. It is maroon in color. How dare they give a Guatemalan a maroon sling… It just took me 2 minutes to write that last sentence. Does it hurt? Well, thanks to these beautiful white pills it doesn’t hurt so badly. Who painted the ceiling yellow?
Bueno, I had a plan to write about my experience from arriving to the hospital to leaving etc. I have since changed my mind. Not because of a lack of moments, but because algo happened to me at the hospital that has struck my beautiful Guatemalan soul to its core. I’m at a loss for words. Well, not really at a loss of words, but this is your American saying and I’m drugged and you have to deal with how I borrow your language. What was I talking about? Ah yes, I’m at a loss for words. (But not really.)
So here comes a woman with blonde hair to tell me that she’s going to give me something to make me relax.
Sweet, sweet Drugs….. Sweet, sweet legal drugs. This is, of course, what I am thinking.
Liar! If by “relax” you meant to say “knock you on your Guatemalan ass” then I wish you had just said that. I am Guatemalan. I have suffered at the hands of jealous boyfriends for many years. I know what it is to be knocked out. Please do not lie to me. I will remember your face oh blonde doctor woman. I will remember.
I wake up with a man clapping in my face. There is a rule I have to punch anyone who claps in my face, but for some reason I thought it to be funny. He was some sort of minority and was clapping to a beat. I started to sing a song but was asked to keep it down. I almost went into a rant about being Guatemalan when I noticed something.
Mi Linda had just made her way into the recovery room when she saw the puzzled look on my face.
“What’s wrong my darling?”
Wrong? Something is terribly wrong.
“Baby, you just had surgery. Of course something is wrong, but not terribly wrong. Are you sick?”
No. I do not get sick.
“Yes, I know, you’re Guatemalan… Seriously. Baby. Do you feel sick?”
Mi Linda, my leg. It’s, it’s different.
“You mean your shoulder? Yes, your shoulder is all bandaged up.”
My hands had somehow managed to explore their way underneath the hospital gown and were feeling something odd on my leg.
Mi Linda, something is terribly wrong. Some hijo de una puta shaved my leg!
Now, mi Linda was very good about trying to contain her laughter, but as I showed her my newly smooth thigh, she couldn’t help but smile.
Now, I like her smile, but this was no smiling matter. I had been violated. That blonde doctor was seriously going down.
WHO THE HELL SHAVED MY LEG?
I saw some old man in a Lazy-Boy type of chair laugh at this, but hey, his gown was pink, did he know this?
A nurse ran into my curtained room to see what the matter was.
Mira, El Bigote (The Mustache), come here. Some funny guy, and I think it was that blonde doctor, decided that it would be a funny joke to shave my leg. Now, I’m not sure what kind of operation you’re running here, but if I come in for a shoulder surgery I don’t want anything below my stomach to be touched. Shoulder is up here. Thigh is down there. Understand?
“El Guapo, they do that because they had a monitor on your leg during the surgery.”
This male nurse was very quick with his answers. Almost too quick for my tastes. He must surely be jealous of mi mustache. His was nice, but not Guatemalan. You could tell.
Hey! Did they shave your leg? I yelled this across the room to another guy my own age. He wasn’t Guatemalan either. Was I the only Guatemalan in here? Do they need special tools for me?
“Probably dude. I had knee surgery.”
Check your arms then. They’re tricky here.
I was getting “shhhhhhh’d” by both Linda and the male nurse with the mustache. He handed the plastic bag containing my clothes and asked her to start getting me ready.
Check to see if my wallet is in there. That blonde doctor probably stole it after she shaved my leg. Mi Linda, go find that blonde doctor.
“El Guapo, I’m not going to find the blonde doctor right now. We’ll find her later.”
Mi Linda was very amused by all of this, but she willingly shaves her legs. I am not a swimmer. I am not a biker. I am not Argentinean. I do not shave my legs. I WILL find that blonde doctor. Guess how many candles are being lit tonight to aid in my search for this unnecessary leg shaving doctor? Well, none. For some reason Dios doesn’t like to help in my spite-driven tirades. I will do this on my own.
PS: Surgery went well and I’m on pain medication. I now know why gringos become addicted to this. Mi Linda is starting to be a bit stingy with the pain medication, but I’m ok for now.