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Having Dodged Most Of The Assorted Germs, Flu And ...
Contributed by Russell Brownworth on Apr 19, 2001 (message contributor)
Having dodged most of the assorted germs, flu and nasty little airborne viruses this year, the tenacious bug finally sank his viscous little fangs into this preacher. Well, talk about crash & burn! Monday afternoon my wife and I had eaten lunch with my Aunt and Uncle from Port Richey. By Monday evening I felt so bad -- body aches, weakness, fever -- I was popping aspirin and invoking the chicken soup clause from our wedding vows (...and promise to pamper my husband¡¦s boo-boos, etc.).
You may have guessed I am not a very silent sufferer. When I am sick I really don¡¦t want company -- only a card that says your heart is broken, and for you, the meaning of life is now uncertain because of my pain. Sympathy is a wonder drug to us wimps.
Allow me to continue this shameless begging for sympathy. By Tuesday morning my poor little body had a temperature of over 101o. I was sick of chicken soup, and my thoughts had drifted to trying to recall where I put my last will and testament. Tuesday night I lay in the bed figuring I would die soon -- by 3 AM I was afraid I wouldn¡¦t!
On Wednesday morning Elizabeth called the doctor for an appointment (guys and other mule-like life forms do not call doctors). Elizabeth had informed me it was a toss-up whether she would call the doctor or the Beggs brothers (local funeral director). She said my eyes were fixed and dilated. She chose the doctor when she became convinced I was still alive. What convinced her was when she tried to take the Nyquil bottle from my hands -- I growled and bit her. (If I¡¦d bitten a second time, she would have called Beggs -- She would have killed me!)
There were some really unique experiences attempting to get a semi-delirious preacher dressed, and loaded into the car. Later I was told I wanted to ride the motorcycle (our lawnmower) to the doctor. However, Elizabeth finally got us to the doctor¡¦s office...and that¡¦s where the point of this epic came to boil.
When we walked into the overcrowded waiting room, there were no seats available. I volunteered to stretch out on the floor, but they put me in a wheelchair. Now, I want you to know my doctor is a caring, compassionate healer.
It was NOT my doctor, however, who put me in that chair -- it was the nurse from Auschwitz. I believe she is related to Heinrich Himmler, or maybe Adolph Eichman. Most nurses I have known have reminded me of the sweet fragrance of Florence Nightingale -- this one brought visions of the Marquis de Sade.
I had taken too many pain pills, and was having difficulty remembering how to do difficult things (like keep my mouth closed & not drool). Gestapo Gertie was giving commands that required hand-eye coordination and utilization of the brain -- I had neither. For instance, you cannot
"stand still please"
on the scale if you do not know where you put your legs. You certainly cannot
"keep that thermometer in your mouth, Mister,"
¡Kif the feeling left your lips a few minutes after you took those six cute little pills.
Now, I am not a very cooperative patient when sober. If you make me chemically drunk, adding a side-order of mild delirium, you will have a virtual zombie on your hands. Most of the time in that office I could not have told you my name.
With me in that unusual state, Nurse Goebels told Elizabeth to take me over to the hospital for an X-ray and blood test. I remember thinking, Free at last, Thank God-A¡¦mighty I¡¦m free at last. But it was not to be! Gertie Goebels insisted on wheeling me all the way to our car, which was parked on the grass in front of the office.
It doesn¡¦t sound ominous -- a ride to the car. However, Gertie¡¦s training had included the famed obstacle track and bruise maneuver.
With every fiber of my being aching and crying for a final resting place, my chauffeur d¡¦jour hit every bump, hole and uneven place on the ramp; she worked the parking lot like a pro, turning pebbles into boulders, causing exquisite, torturous waves of cranial pressure echoing off the sides of my temples. This was a downhill run with the precise execution (no pun) of a Picabo Street.
Approaching the finish line, I figured the worst was behind. What does a dead man know? The car was in the grass, my wheeled torture chamber rolling along the pavement. Gertie was going for it all.
As we neared the end of the pavement I heard a gasp from behind (much like the accentuated grunts Andre Agassi makes when he hits a searing ferocious backhand cross-court for a winner).
With a second grunt-and-shove, the nurse from Hades kicked the wheelchair from La-La land into high gear to navigate a wormhole at warp speed.
Her calculation was perfect. Instead of sailing over the lawn to the car ¡V the wheels dug in the turf and locked ¡V pivoting all the weight forward.
The wheelchair somersaulted its ecclesiastical baggage headfirst onto the lawn -- a perfect four-point landing!
Moving in for the kill, Gertie shouted Get up!
I meekly replied, You the man! (2)
Russell Brownworth, The Florida Baptist Witness, 1988
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