The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life by Melanie Shankle
Authors: Melanie Shankle
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because we’re not even Clemson fans, not to mention that South Carolina is a pretty good haul from Texas. So I took this as an indication that maybe it was time to cut back on the meds just a tad.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last of Perry’s surgeries. Fast-forward about eight years and an additional back surgery later, and we decided to try it one more time. The difference was that this time we had a child and bad health insurance now that we were bothself-employed. All of a sudden that Tylenol they wanted to charge $85 for seemed highly extravagant.
Perry had to be at the hospital by five thirty in the morning. I still haven’t really figured out why you have to be at the hospital so early for surgery. Especially since the doctors don’t seem to breeze through to draw those Sharpie cutting dots on your body until sometime around nine. Inconveniently, this surgery coincided with Mimi and Bops leaving on vacation and Gulley already being on vacation, so I was left without anyone to help me with Caroline until after eight in the morning. And that’s how Perry ended up taking a taxi to have back surgery during our ninth year of marriage. Old Love!
That’s what happens when you’re on your third back surgery in four years. It’s like having your fourth baby —you’re lucky if anyone even shows up. And they sure aren’t bringing flowers or food.
In fact, Perry told me I could just stay home and he’d take a cab back home when the surgery was over. I told him there was no way I was going to let him do that. Cab rides aren’t cheap, and we have a perfectly good city bus system.
I finally arrived at the hospital around eight thirty or so and then proceeded to wander the vast medical maze for the next twenty minutes searching for Perry. Helpful hospital employees directed me to the fifth floor, and then the ninth floor, and then to the sublevel basement in the north tower. Finally I spied him lying in the pre-op room and recognized him in spite of the sweet hairnet on his head.
They wheeled him off and sent me to the surgical waiting room. I asked how long the surgery would take. They said about an hour, so I headed over to the food court because my stomach was in knots and needed the comfort that only an egg, bean,and cheese breakfast taco could bring. Oh, and a Grande latte from Starbucks.
(Do you see how I eat during these situations? There is no tragedy too big for food.)
It puzzles me that some hospitals have food courts because, while I completely understand why friends and loved ones wouldn’t want to eat in the hospital cafeteria, going to grab egg rolls with a side of fried rice at Zing Tao’s China Hut while Grandma is in surgery seems a little irreverent. Of course, those of us who eat tacos in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
I finished my taco and then headed to the surgical waiting room. To say that I was the youngest person in there is the understatement of the century. Apparently the neurosurgery day ward usually caters to a much older crowd, as evidenced by the fact that The Price Is Right was being shown on every available television while various conversations were held about how handsome Bob Barker was when he was a young man. How old do you have to be to have any recollection of Bob Barker ever being young?
I also was able to witness a catfight between two of the elderly Blue Bird volunteers, which honestly was worth the price of our insurance deductible. It seems that Myrtle, who wasn’t a day under ninety-seven, hadn’t been doing the job of surgery waiting-room hostess well enough to meet the standards of Gloria, who was a spring chicken at around seventy-eight. Gloria was quick to tell Myrtle that the only way to do things was the way Gloria wanted them done.
Honestly, I didn’t see much difference between the hostessing methods of Myrtle and Gloria, other than a little salesmanship. Gloria pushed the waiting-room coffee like a Juan Valdez drug lord. Anyone who
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last of Perry’s surgeries. Fast-forward about eight years and an additional back surgery later, and we decided to try it one more time. The difference was that this time we had a child and bad health insurance now that we were bothself-employed. All of a sudden that Tylenol they wanted to charge $85 for seemed highly extravagant.
Perry had to be at the hospital by five thirty in the morning. I still haven’t really figured out why you have to be at the hospital so early for surgery. Especially since the doctors don’t seem to breeze through to draw those Sharpie cutting dots on your body until sometime around nine. Inconveniently, this surgery coincided with Mimi and Bops leaving on vacation and Gulley already being on vacation, so I was left without anyone to help me with Caroline until after eight in the morning. And that’s how Perry ended up taking a taxi to have back surgery during our ninth year of marriage. Old Love!
That’s what happens when you’re on your third back surgery in four years. It’s like having your fourth baby —you’re lucky if anyone even shows up. And they sure aren’t bringing flowers or food.
In fact, Perry told me I could just stay home and he’d take a cab back home when the surgery was over. I told him there was no way I was going to let him do that. Cab rides aren’t cheap, and we have a perfectly good city bus system.
I finally arrived at the hospital around eight thirty or so and then proceeded to wander the vast medical maze for the next twenty minutes searching for Perry. Helpful hospital employees directed me to the fifth floor, and then the ninth floor, and then to the sublevel basement in the north tower. Finally I spied him lying in the pre-op room and recognized him in spite of the sweet hairnet on his head.
They wheeled him off and sent me to the surgical waiting room. I asked how long the surgery would take. They said about an hour, so I headed over to the food court because my stomach was in knots and needed the comfort that only an egg, bean,and cheese breakfast taco could bring. Oh, and a Grande latte from Starbucks.
(Do you see how I eat during these situations? There is no tragedy too big for food.)
It puzzles me that some hospitals have food courts because, while I completely understand why friends and loved ones wouldn’t want to eat in the hospital cafeteria, going to grab egg rolls with a side of fried rice at Zing Tao’s China Hut while Grandma is in surgery seems a little irreverent. Of course, those of us who eat tacos in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
I finished my taco and then headed to the surgical waiting room. To say that I was the youngest person in there is the understatement of the century. Apparently the neurosurgery day ward usually caters to a much older crowd, as evidenced by the fact that The Price Is Right was being shown on every available television while various conversations were held about how handsome Bob Barker was when he was a young man. How old do you have to be to have any recollection of Bob Barker ever being young?
I also was able to witness a catfight between two of the elderly Blue Bird volunteers, which honestly was worth the price of our insurance deductible. It seems that Myrtle, who wasn’t a day under ninety-seven, hadn’t been doing the job of surgery waiting-room hostess well enough to meet the standards of Gloria, who was a spring chicken at around seventy-eight. Gloria was quick to tell Myrtle that the only way to do things was the way Gloria wanted them done.
Honestly, I didn’t see much difference between the hostessing methods of Myrtle and Gloria, other than a little salesmanship. Gloria pushed the waiting-room coffee like a Juan Valdez drug lord. Anyone who
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