OK, I’m not stoned, so don’t even think that. Sure, I may have taken one or two hydrocodone tablets since Surgeon removed my gallbladder the other day, but it’s all good ‘cause I can handle it.
Handle. That’s sort of a muscular word, isn’t it? I wish I’d named my son Handle. Maybe it’s not too late. I am his Mom after all. I’ll bet if I just start calling him Handle it would stick.
So my hospital stay was nice. It was very Blue Cross Hilton. There was a food court, a convenience store of sorts and even a white baby grand piano all nestled inside what they called The Medical Mall. Kitten and I were thinking maybe we’d go back when I wasn’t getting something cut out of me and just hang out. Maybe see a show and grab a little dinner.
In the tiny surgery prep room, people in scrubs and plastic shoes kept coming in to either take my bodily fluids or tell me I looked scared. One of them was a nun. I have to admit I don’t have a lot of experience with nuns as I am not Catholic. But, I thought they had to wear nun suits or badges or something that clearly identifies them as nuns to people who might swear in their presence. If she was in possession of some such ID, I was not aware of it.
Her name was Laverne. I can’t think the nun regulations allow them to have names like Laverne, do they? I know her name was Laverne because she said to me, “My name is Laverne”. I know she was a nun because every other scrub wearing person called her Sister. Nice as she was, it kind of freaked me out frankly, having Laverne the undercover nun attending to me.
I grew up Southern Baptist in a town that was full of other Southern Baptists and the odd Methodist. I have absolutely no nun knowledge. I kept trying to do something that looked Catholic so she’d be inspired to put in a good word for me with her Boss before I went under the knife. All I could think of was to cross myself like I’ve seen boxers and rappers on TV do.
I looked like I was trying to tell Helen Keller I needed some Pepto Bismol and a cigarette.
When first she came in, Laverne called me Sweetheart and I liked that. I’m a sucker for anyone who calls me Sweetheart. Or Sweet Cheeks. Or Sher. Anyway, just like everyone else who entered my little waiting room, she told me I seemed nervous. Regrettably, I agreed with her.
“Like a whore in church.”
In my defense, I don’t think that should go on my permanent record as at that point, I had no idea I was talking to a nun. That’s entrapment, right? When a nurse walked in and referred to her as Sister, I nearly had an infarction.
I tried to fix it.
“Not that I’m a whore or anything. And I’m not trying to judge whores or say they should be nervous in church or something. I mean, you people love everybody, am I right? I mean, you love whores, too. Not that you’re a whore lover, but you’d totally invite a whore to church if you happened to see one out like at the grocery store or something and she mentioned she was thinking about maybe going to church. You’d probably invite her over to your church, right? Right? I just mean that uh… umm… I liked you in Sister Act.”
Thankfully someone stuck something in my arm that made me start singing Itsy Bitsy Spider and showing random people in the hallway my boobs. I don’t know where Laverne the Undercover Nun is tonight, but I want to give her a big blog shout out of thanks. She was a lovely person and a credit to her vocation. In fact, she was so sweet and attentive; she made nunning look like a great job… except for the whole no sex thing. I much prefer the Southern Baptist sex rules: you can do it so long as you feel guilty about it, never enjoy it and pretend you don’t know what condoms are.
I’ve got to run. It’s time for a tiny pill and some upset tummy medicine and even though I’ll want to sleep in tomorrow and waller in my gallbladder-less sick bed, Handle has school in the morning.
Thank you awful for your get well emails and support. You stranger blog readers are the best.
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