If there was anything even remotely humorous about my colon cancer surgery, I was going to find it. After all, it had forced its way into my life like a renegade family member I couldn’t slap with a restraining order.
The penalty for the perpetrator was death by scalpel but I had to book reservations at the Hospital Hilton to execute the sentence. So I packed my bags and prepared to entrust my body and all internal organs to perfect strangers!
After check-in at the front desk, I was asked to produce a urine sample. How dare they ask this of my poor kidneys when I’d had nothing to drink for at least ten hours? But the fun had only begun.
Next, I was escorted to my own Grand Suite El Elegante, where I became part of Hospital Hilton’s famous fashion parade. In exchange for the clothing I arrived in, I donned a gown with a pattern so simple and elegant I fail to remember it. The style was unpretentious to a fault and provided generous ventilation at the back, particularly below the region of the waist.
As I undressed, I was a bit concerned about the gaps between the curtains that formed my Suite. There was lots of traffic up and down Main Street and I had neighbors. Ah well, the doctors and nurses had seen it all anyway and I was just another 130 something pounds of flesh.
Shortly before the Great Removal, the surgical team hosted a party for me in El Elegante. A nurse assisted me in donning the imperial elastic stockings. My heart was x-rayed. The anesthesiologist joked about how she would care for me as if I were her own child. I hoped that if she had kids, none had ever been removed from her home by Child Protective Services.
I have no idea what the last thing on my conscious mind was but upon awakening, I was interviewed: Where was I? What day was it? Who was the president of the United States? Didn’t the nurse know these things himself? Why did he have to ask me? I could have confused the issue by saying that Bill Clinton was president and Monika Lewinski the first lady. But I might have gotten attention I hadn’t asked for and certainly didn’t want.
Finally, the maid service had my room ready and I was conveyed through the halls and in and out of elevators in utmost comfort by a cheerful, accommodating orderly, trained at one of the nation’s top schools of gurney driving.
I soon discovered that the Hospital Hilton does their best to alleviate any nighttime feelings of isolation. Family members of roommates stay the night and soothe you to sleep with their snores. Nurses assure you of their presence with chatter, laughter, and the slamming of cabinet doors, just outside your room.
Approximately forty-eight hours later, I was allowed my first nourishment by mouth, a delightful smorgasbord of salt, processed sugar and artificial food coloring. However, upon being questioned, my surgeon suggested I could have other, more healthy fare—MacDonald’s, for instance. And this man removed twenty inches of my intestines?
Forty-eight hours after The Great Removal, I was on my feet and allowed an excursion through the halls. This was good for the body and soul. However, I was still attached to one particular accouterment. I should have requested an empty before I set out. I’d sacrificed my last drops upon arrival and I am sure no one would have believed that the liquid in the bag hanging from the silver pole was lemonade!
After five days, my adventures at the Hilton were finished and I rode home. You know, the Hospital Hilton was an odd sort of place. You leave most hotels with postcards, pens or half used complimentary bottles of shampoo as souvenirs. I left with a pair of very snug, thigh-high stockings, a page of post-surgery instructions and a pair of scissors. Were they used for my surgery?
I received great care but the only five stars that will ever be associated with any stay at a Hospital Hilton will be awarded upon full recovery.
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