That Time I Had My Coconut Removed
There are periods in your life when you think that your self-esteem couldn’t possibly get any lower; that the only way to go is up.
Then with a maniacal laugh and a wag of the finger, the universe says, “No, girrrl. Uh-uh” and hands you these.
Ladies and gentlemen, my hospital issued underwear:
I can’t rightly say just what fabric these medicinal underpants are made of. Nor can I fathom what the banded design provides other than another unflattering aspect.
But what I can tell you is that these babies are purpose-built for comfort. They possess unparalleled super-expando capabilities.
It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that I could’ve safely jumped from my fourth-floor hospital room window, touching down as light as Mary Poppins in these babies. Seeing as how they would’ve ballooned to parachute size without so much as a whimper, and all.
Two weeks ago I had another procedure on my middle bit. (I’m fine, no cancer.) I have 2 previous laparoscopic scars on the sides of my tum-tum, one in my belly button and now, a niiiice big smile to round out the package.
Add to that some baby-havin’ tiger stripes and my stomach looks like a demented smiley face with terrible skin issues.
Immediately following the surgery, my lower belly was so swollen and puffy that it looked like I was wearing a floaty inner tube, but on the inside. Kind of like wearing your socks over your shoes.
I’m bringin’ sexy back, alright.
While in recovery, I didn’t know if I was just loopy or if what my surgeon was saying to me was real. He made a pluck sound and said “we removed your coconut,” and motioned with his hands an imaginary coconut shape.
My coconut? I had a secret coconut?
I was reassured that I wasn’t crazy when he repeated the statement a day later. Now fully coherent when he stopped in to see how I was doing, he again motioned the imaginary coconut but clarified what they removed was the size of a coconut.
I have to admit, it was disappointing not to have an actual inner coconut.
One of my post-surgical tasks was to try to fart.
Having spent the last 45 years of my life trying not to fart, this was the moment I’d been waiting for. Some guy asked me to fart on purpose! No making noises, shoe scuffing, or any of the other oddball coverage techniques people employ to try to mask their butt-sounds. No sir. Just let it rip with abandon.
Not only that, every nurse who cared for me was hellbent on knowing whether or not I was enjoying a ride on the poot-poot express. Never do you expect to hear “Having you been passing gas?” with such curiosity, enthusiasm, and concern.
The procedure was a success. I’m not in pain, I don’t have cancer and other than being generally tired, I’m perfectly fine. Put one in the win column for me.
My recovery period is six weeks or so. That means I have to limit physical activity, not benchpress a Volkswagon, yadda yadda yadda.
Between you and me, you know what really concerns me. Yep – that I can’t ride my bike in what has been some excellent late spring weather. I’ve still got 4 weeks to go until I’ll be able to fly. Assuming they don’t identify any other strange fruits in my body.
Surely the only way is up from here!
Two weeks later – as nutty as ever: