TUBE BE OR NOT TUBE BE
	
	Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind an alarm went off...a 
warning that something was amiss...a "heads up" call that roused 
me from my introspection about the surgical procedure I was about 
to endure.

	I shook my head to clear the sound of the mental siren, but 
I discovered that the wailing wouldn't disappear like it should have.  
It was faint, but I could still hear it, and it finally dawned on me that 
the sound was real.  Just then, an orderly came in and told Michelle 
that the valet parking attendants at the hospital had inadvertently 
activated the alarm on her car and had also accidentally locked the 
keys, along with the pushbutton "alarm zapper", inside the car.  
he left with the orderly to turn the damn thing off, digging in her 
purse for her extra key as she went.

	Michelle is one of my closest friends...in fact, I trust her more 
implicitly than I trust any other person I know.  I have a few other 
close friends, but none of them lives within a hundred miles of me.  
Besides, Michelle is a damn fine medical student, so when she 
offered to help me before, during and after my surgery, I really 
wanted her to be there with me.

	Oh, yeah...Michelle is also my ex-wife
.
	"Excision of tubular lipoma...left groin...local anesthesia, no 
meds, no I. V." is what the words on my chart said.  I snuck a 
look at it when the nurse left it in my room during the excitement 
of the car alarm melee.  I had never heard of a "tubular lipoma" 
until I was pronounced to be the possessor of one.  Sometimes 
they use words that scare folks just because the meaning of the 
words is not clear or well-known.  I am a fairly well-educated 
person, however, and I do know how to read, so I had looked 
up the terms I didn't understand in a medical dictionary.  I kept 
on looking up stuff until I came up with enough cross-references 
between the medical dictionary and my well-worn Webster's 
New Collegiate that I had a more than passing familiarity with 
the glossary of terms that described my particular ailment.  If  I 
did my lexicography correctly, a "lipoma" is a tumor composed 
of fatty tissue, and the term "tubular" refers uninventively to 
the shape of the growth. 
 
	The things that the dictionary didn't clear up were the questions 
I asked the surgeon when my regular doctor first referred me to 
him.  The surgeon grew up in this part of the planet, the son of a 
small town general practitioner, and he could still speak West 
Texan well enough that he could understand my questions and 
give me straight-shootin' answers.  "Chance of malignancy very 
low (although we'll send it to the pathology lab just to make sure), 
probably a genetic predisposition for these things to form."  

The surgeon said he could live with it as long as I could, and that 
unless the thing was bothering me, I could probably just leave it 
alone.  "But it's only gonna get bigger with time" he said.  But the
thing that really clinched it for me was when I asked him what he 
would do if he wasn't trying to sell me a surgery.  "I'd have it 
removed if it was me."  Well, that interchange was four weeks ago, 
and I found myself in this hospital room, wearing the proverbial 
tie-in-the-back fashion statement.

	There were a lot of forms to fill out and papers to sign, even 
though I had "pre-registered" for my "short stay" during the 
previous week.  The nurse seemed somewhat astonished when
 I listed Michelle as my "next of kin" and entrusted my watch, 
wallet and eyeglasses to her for safekeeping until after the 
surgery.

	"Wife?" she asked.

	"Ex-wife," Michelle and I chorused together.

	"Besides," I continued, "the surgeon is the one who's gonna 
be handling my real valuables."

	"And I know for a fact that there's no money left in this wallet," 
Michelle added.

	"I don't get along this well with my husband, and we're not even 
considering divorce," she muttered.

	It was during this interview with the nurse that we discovered 
that the hospital's computer had somehow determined that my 
birthday was September 9, 1899, and its infallible brain had 
calculated my age as ninety-five years.  This new birthday and 
age were on the little plastic identification card that the computer 
had prepared and was consequently embossed on every single 
form and piece of paper associated with my name.  There were 
more than a few comments about Social Security and senior 
citizen discounts, and I asked the nurse for the appropriate forms 
to apply for full medicare coverage.  The nurse said that I looked 
pretty good for a man my age.  I told her "Yeah, thanks to my 
daily ration of Lone Star Beer, I am remarkably well-preserved."

	"More like pickled," she muttered.

	"They'll be coming for you with a stretcher in a few minutes," 
the nurse said.

	"A stretcher?" I feigned horror.  "I'm here because I need 
surgery, not traction!"

	"You may," she said as she left the room.

	I was playing with the controls that make the bed contort 
when the door opened and a beautiful young woman came in 
wheeling a gurney.  Casting modesty aside, I transferred my 
carcass onto the cart and had covered up with a sheet before 
she took me into the hall.  Then my imagination caused me to 
hear the faint sound of a bell clanging and a mournful voice 
calling "Bring out your dead!".  Was the lump in my groin 
really a bubo?

	Ever been to a track meet?  There is an event where one 
member of a team of competitors goes along the prescribed 
path as fast as possible and then passes the baton to another 
member of the team who continues the trek at breakneck 
speed until the next team member is encountered and is handed 
the baton.  This procedure continues until the final destination 
is reached.  I felt as if me and my gurney were the baton in a 
relay event because about every fifteen steps or so, a new face 
would appear above my head as I got shuttled down the hall 
toward the surgery area.  I finally quit counting the different 
number of folks who had a hand in getting me from my room to 
the "holding area".  Then every single one of them disappeared 
and I started looking around.

	I lay there for quite a while, contemplating the probable 
temperature of the room.  It was really cold in there and I wished 
for another sheet or blanket to keep my feet warm.  There were 
several patients already in the room before I arrived, and some 
of them were apparently hooked up to heart monitoring devices 
because I could hear the "beeps" as the machines sounded out 
the pulse of their respective patients.  Because each of them had 
a slightly different pulse rate, the rhythm of the "beeps" was 
quite intricate and syncopated.  I could see the clock from where 
I was, and it didn't take me but about five minutes to discover 
that every thirty-four seconds, every heart monitor in the room 
uttered a simultaneous "beep" and then it was silent until the 
fastest of the hearts chugged again.  I found it fascinating that 
all the nurses, orderlies, and doctors in the room cocked their 
heads as if they were listening very intently each time the unison 
"beep" occurred.

	A nurse came by my gurney and asked me for the third or 
fourth time if I had removed all jewelry, eyeglasses, dentures, or 
contact lenses.  I reassured her that I was clean and that I was 
not taking any medication which might interfere with the surgery.  
"Any allergies?" she asked.

	"I'm not allergic to anything but work," I replied.  "Y'all 
aren't planning to infuse me with any of that, are ya?"

	She snorted and walked away.

	In a few minutes another nurse came and whisked me out 
of the room.  She was joined by several other people as I was 
trundled down the corridor, and I had the mental image of three
 people on each side of me with a priestess at my head murmuring 
incantations as we neared my final destination.  They pushed 
me into the operating room and I was astounded at the array 
of sophisticated looking electronic equipment...lights flashing, 
softly humming...and I looked around to see if I could find the 
big green curtain behind which the Wizard was manipulating 
the handles and switches.  I hadn't seen diagnostic equipment 
as impressive as this since the last time I took my car to Mr.
 Goodwrench.

	They got me transferred to the operating table and went to 
work hooking me up to various machines.  I got connected to a 
heart monitor via five or six sensors which they stuck to me in 
various places.  Then they put a large pad with a wire extending 
from it on my right hip.  I asked the nurse what it was for and 
she explained that it was part of the device used to cauterize 
wounds to keep the blood from obscuring the surgeon's view.  
I have used a welding machine a few times, so it made sense 
to me that they needed a "ground strap".	

	They placed a strap across my legs and secured my right 
arm next to my hip.  Then they extended my left arm onto a shelf 
which they had installed on the side of the operating table and 
placed a strap over the wrist of my extended arm.  "Where are 
the whips and chains?" I asked, and one of the nurses laughed.  
As far as I could tell, I was being tended to by a host of beauty 
pageant contestants.  I couldn't see their faces because of the 
surgical masks they were wearing, but their eyes were smiling 
and expressing concern for my comfort and well-being.  After 
they had finished with their bondage routine, one of them said 
"I'll let the doctor know that we're ready."

	She pressed a button somewhere and spoke in a loud, clear 
voice, summoning the surgeon.  No response.  She tried it again.  
Still nothing.  Here I was, connected to a half million dollars worth 
of sophisticated medical equipment, and the damned intercom 
wouldn't even work.  She finally gave up and called the physicians' 
lounge on the telephone to tell the surgeon that all was in readiness.

	He appeared momentarily and immediately went to work
 painting me with betadyne and shaving the area on my left groin 
where he was going to be removing the growth.  Then he said 
"Take a deep breath because I'm going to turn loose my trained 
bees.  That's what it's gonna feel like, anyway, because I'm going 
to be injecting the lidocaine to deaden the area where the incision 
is gonna be."

	I am ticklish, and, when he started touching the area of my 
groin, I couldn't help but wiggle and squirm involuntarily.  To quash 
this rebellion, one of the beautiful nurses held my left leg, another 
leaned across my right leg where my right arm was strapped to it, 
and another stood at my head, ready to capture my left arm in the
event that I should try anything foolish.  "Way too much excitement 
for a ninety-five year old man," I thought as I detected the gentle 
pressure of the nurses restraining me.

	I glanced upward and saw a new piece of machinery appear 
over my head.  Then someone pulled a sheet over my head.  The 
sheet smelled of formalin, and I briefly wondered if something had 
gone horribly wrong already.  Nobody seemed concerned about it 
but me, though, so I figured I was still among the living.  As a matter 
of fact, I was pretty sure I was still alive because those damned bees 
wouldn't quit stinging me.

	"Are you about through with the lidocaine?" I asked the surgeon.

	"Too late to back out, now," he said.  "I've already made the incision."

	When I concentrated, I realized that I didn't feel the bee stings any 
more.  In fact, I couldn't feel anything in the area where he had injected 
the lidocaine.  "How long do you think this will take?" I asked.

	"Oh, I'd say about fifteen minutes," the surgeon replied.  "Why?  
Do you have a date?"

	I wondered if the lidocaine would be a help or a hindrance on a date.

	The next few minutes were filled with my incessant and sometimes
 incoherent nervous babbling.  I racked my brain for something to say 
so that I could take my mind off the apprehension I was feeling about
the fact that some relative stranger had just cut me open, and that my 
most private parts were exposed to the scrutiny of the bevy of beauties 
who served as his "hench-persons".  (Is that politically correct?)  
However, the only response I got from the other folks in the room 
was an unceasing rendition of medical mumbo-jumbo, and I imagined 
that somewhere on the other side of the sheet that covered my head, 
the rest of the occupants of the room were dancing around the table 
and waving a dead chicken.

	I remember hearing the sound of bacon frying, and smelling the 
aroma of cooking meat.

	"Do you want to see this thing before I put it in a jar and send 
it to the 'path lab'?"

	"You bet!" I exclaimed.  I wanted to be able to describe my 
intruder for Michelle because she had not been permitted to observe 
the surgery.

	The sheet was pulled back and the surgeon appeared in my view. 
 He was holding a piece of meat which was about the diameter of a 
half-dollar and about seven inches long.  The thing was very limp and 
it dangled from his forceps, dripping blood.

	"My God!" I cried.  "You've excised the wrong 'tubular'!  Can I 
have it, just to remember old times by?"

	"Nope," he replied.  "We never get these things back from the 
'path lab'."   I had a fleeting vision of orgiastic revelry in some dark
 recess of the hospital.

	He put the lipoma in a jar and I heard him return to the area beside 
my groin.  "I'm gonna close up, now," he said.

	"How many stitches do you think it will take?"

	"Hey, consider yourself lucky.  It's December and I'm gonna 
use more than one suture on you.  The incision's only about six i
nches long, and I'd usually limit you to one stitch, but I'm feeling 
an uncharacteristic Christmas generosity today."

	"This is what happens when you get insurance company 
and government bureaucrats involved in the health care industry," 
I thought to myself.  "They have to economize in every way 
possible."

	I felt like a "P. F. Flyer" being laced as he inserted the sutures.  
A little tug here...a little tug there.  Calls for "four-oh", and, 
fortunately, no "uh oh's".

	A bandage was applied, and all's right with the world.

	I was right!  They are all beautiful!  With the masks off.

	"Do you want me to talk to your friend?"

	"I would really appreciate it if you would."  Michelle had
been waiting to hear about my progress, and she had developed 
some stories of her own, but I'm going to let you hear those from 
her.  

	Somebody brought in the gurney, and I scooted 
unceremoniously back onto it.  I got wheeled back to the 
walk-in cooler (the "holding corral"), and I once again wondered 
if maybe I had been transferred to the morgue by mistake...
or by design.

	"Hey, Badger!  What are you doing here?"  It was the 
voice of a friend of mine from my workplace, who was scheduled 
to undergo a lens transplant on one of his eyes today.  Serendipity
that we ended up in the "corral" at the same time.

	"How did you know it was me?" I asked.  I knew that, with 
his visual problems, he would have had a hard time recognizing 
me unless I had been on his gurney beside him.

	"Hell, your voice is unmistakable, and you were talking 
non-stop all the way down the hall."

	They parked me across the room from him, and we conversed 
for a few minutes...cracking jokes and puns...and the patient in 
the stall next to my friend laughed as Tommy and I cut each 
other's mutual physical impairments to shreds.

	An orderly came over and wheeled me to an unoccupied 
stall next to Tommy.

	"Disturbing the other patients?" I asked.

	"Nope, we just wanted to make it easier for y'all to entertain 
'em," the orderly replied.

	They came and wheeled me away in a few minutes, and the 
Pony Express, with its numerous transfers, delivered me back 
to my room in short order.  I got myself back into the bed, and 
asked the nurse if I could put my clothes back on now.

	"Not till after I get your vital signs and you urinate," she 
replied.  "You can't do anything until you urinate."

	"Then bring me a cup of coffee or a glass of water," I implored. 
 "Y'all said not to eat or drink anything after midnight last night,
and, if I'm s'posed to pee before I can go, I'd better get some 
liquid inside me."

	The nurse was putting the blood pressure cuff on my arm 
as Michelle walked back into the room, telling the story about 
the car alarm and her mission of auricular mercy.  The blood 
pressure machine belched into the cuff around my arm, and 
in a few minutes it proclaimed its arbitrary results on its screen.  
A little high...in fact, for me, way too high.

	"I'll check it again in a few minutes," the nurse said, and 
then she left.  She reappeared almost immediately with a tray 
that contained two doughnuts, a cup of coffee, a cup of water, 
some grape juice, and butter and jelly (but no toast or bread).  
I offered my arm to her for her to re-check my blood pressure 
and she obliged.  

	The result was even higher than the time before, and I 
expressed some concern over my steadily rising systolic.  
"Maybe I had the cuff on a little crooked," she said, and 
she removed the cuff and re-applied it.  The machine pumped 
up again, and this time the result was about normal for me. 
 
	"Okay, you can put your clothes back on, and I'll call for a 
wheel chair to get you out of here as soon as you urinate."

	"Better call 'em now, and you'd better get me unhooked from 
that machine or you're gonna have to change these sheets."  
The coffee was doing its homeopathic miracles.

	Michelle helped me get my clothes back on and even tied my
shoes, and we settled back to await the wheel chair after I had 
visited the toilet.

	The nurse came back in and said "They're all busy...it'll be 
a while before we can get you a chair.  Believe me when I tell 
you that I'm truly sorry about the delay."  What a delightful 
lady...she picked up on the trend of the humor and was 
playfully participating.

	"How much trouble would you get into if I decided to 
just walk out of here?" I asked.

	"No trouble, but I'll have to go with you," she came back.

	Our little parade sauntered down the hall to the elevator 
and around to the valet parking desk.

	"They'll have your car here in just a minute," the nurse said.

	"Thanks for everything!"  I really meant it.

	Michelle's car appeared into view just as I lit a cigarette, 
and somewhere, on the other side of the building, I heard
 a car alarm start blaring.

                 END