Laproscopy Revisited

It seems whenever I think things are going to slow down…things fast up. On a recent day that will live in infamy, the world mourned the loss of Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon…and Dennis’ hernia. The entire population of the planet is entrenched in nostalgia, recalling the immortal words, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!” and the lyrics of “Thriller,” and THE poster of Farrah in a red bathing-suit, and Dennis’ proclamation, “Hernia alert! Call the doctor! We’re gonna’ need more chicken wire!”

I know. I know. It’s only been a few weeks since the first hernia surgery…the prequel. But in the interest of fair and equal invasive procedures, his left side found out what his right side had done…and demanded equal time.

His entire lower abdomen looks like a Rorschach inkblot, with perfectly matching incision scars. Dr. Frankengroin is a term of endearment, and I only use it when he’s still under the influence of anesthetic and unable to inflict bodily harm.

But he is sporting a certain symmetry now…a sort of abdominal feng shui, that he didn’t have when his left side looked like freshly fallen snow where no footprint left an impression.

I had considered tracing the trails blazed by previous surgeons with indelible ink to see if it was similar to the Appalachian Trail. But Dennis, in spite of anesthetic numb-tongue, managed to describe consequences of such graphic distinction, that I thought better of it, and surrendered custody of my magic marker. (Ooooh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the laprascope!)

Dr. Glasgow placed a great wall of chicken wire internally that extends to all his quadrants, so should he try to pop another hernia, it will have to emerge from his nostrils. This was reassuring…except Dennis is still very careful when he blows his nose.

He doesn’t exactly walk upright as yet, but he still has two opposing thumbs which identify him as one of Darwin’s more advanced evolutionary creatures.

While Thursday was a peculiar day when perhaps the universe seemed somewhat out of alignment – Jupiter and Mars were horoscopically at odds – the rest of June was a month of celebrations. And the girls pulled out all the stops for Father’s Day. Words fail me to describe the tribute, so the following is Brodi’s chronicle of the events of that occasion.

BRODI:

Totally Lame Father’s Day Presents:

What do you get the guy who gave you life, sacrificed so much to provide for you, threw you countless pop-ups in the backyard, gave you away at your wedding, provided medical care for your children, and battled Pancreatic Cancer in a war of epic proportions?

I’ll tell you. You get him the love child of a toilet scrubber and a feather duster. And you tell him it’s a backscratcher!

Now, before you all throw stones in my general direction, let me just explain one thing. Ummm…it’s my sister’s fault. (Just kidding, Erin.)

Really, though, we bought my Dad David Copperfield tickets about a month ago for Father’s Day. Even so, there’s nothing more embarrassing than the three Dads in our family showing off their presents on the actual day. Sam and Dave with their cordless power drills, my Dad with his…backscratcher.

My sister bought it from a traveling salesman, who, I’m sure, walked away from her house thinking to himself, “I can’t believe she bought it. I’ve had that in my truck for twenty years. I wonder if she’ll go for the dust bunnies in the back of my truck next time.”

After my Dad opened the gift, my sister leaned over to me and said, “You owe me three dollars!”

JOAN:

You can see why words failed me! So many memories can be made with such little activity in the old brainbox.

Life, like oceans, has a rhythm and order. It is June. June is a time for celebrations and reunions.

Our annual high school ladies’ luncheon was held at our house (talk about memories made with little activity in the old brainbox!) This year we included the men. I feared that “luncheon acumen” was not related to the Y chromosome. I was wrong, and it proved to be a very wise decision.

Before classmates began arriving, I wondered where everyone would be on the rigor mortes spectrum, assessed the size of burqa required to obscure my dreaded “dermatological crepe,” and pondered the appropriate amount of mortician’s putty necessary to make myself presentable.

But then, I decided to secure the zone with a no judge/no grudge policy, declare myself, “the people’s geezer,” provide proof of vaccination, and embrace the “no excuses” reunion.

When everyone came, the years, pounds and sag evaporated, and we all became born-again adolescents…you know, like when the term “senior” meant we were about to graduate high school…not life.

We partied into the wee hours…that’s about 7:00 p.m. OFST. (Old Fart Standard Time), and we actually remembered things from ancient history…ours! Some things, mercifully, dementia has allowed us to forget.

I so appreciated Dennis taking pictures of that auspicious afternoon. And I only made one request: that he try to get photos of me when I’m not eating, talking or blinking. He failed miserably. We’ll have a lot of cutting and pasting to do before we scrapbook those suckers.

Time tempers all things – and nostalgia is exactly what it used to be. This reunion is evidence of that. And in the spirit of rose-colored hindsight, I fully expect to be ID’d the next time I try to sneak into an R-rated movie!

Our love to all,

The Clot