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MAY 2, 2007
FOOD O’CLOCK:
A CLEAR-LIQUID DAY IN THE LIFE
Notes from a Tuesday,
posted as I go off to the hospital. Don't worry, it's minor . . .
I hope.
6:50 a.m. Alarm
clock goes off. Get up to rumbles of
stomach, provoked by palate-pleasing, heartburn-inducing,
not-at-all-clear-but-so-frickin’-good dinner night before.
Remind self not to eat breakfast.
Curse the day ahead.
7:45
a.m. Typical breakfast time. Get
out bowl, remind self not to pour
Cheerios into it this time. Open
freezer, remove sorbet purchased for precisely this occasion. Lemon. Attempt to
scoop. Fail:
rock
hard. Open freezer, remove back-up
sorbet: cantaloupe-lime. Wonder why
purchased; not a cantaloupe fan. At
all. Curse circumstances, eat it
anyway. Not awful, all things
considered.
8:30 a.m.
Arrive at office. Make mental note: in
spite of gurgling tummy,
overwhelming hunger, now is not the time to purchase doughnut from
coffee shop,
per usual custom when such gurglings and sensations interrupt morning. Consider fact that procedure doesn’t take
place until noon the
following day —
technically, 24-hours-of-clear-liquids window has not yet arrived. Urge to eat an apple fritter — hot, gooey,
sugary, sublime, and containing apples, so therefore healthful as well
—
defeated by urge not to be turned away from the operating table at the
last
minute, after anesthesiologist has administered knock-out drugs, and,
at last
minute, words stumble from mouth: “I ate breakfast yesterday!” thus
necessitating a re-scheduling of the procedure and another day of
abstention
and “preparation.”
9:30 a.m. First appearance of non-clear food
brought in
by co-worker to share. Peanut
M&Ms. Mmm . . . peanut M&Ms. . .
. In Easter colors, though: weeks old,
probably not very good.
11
a.m. Box of Dots, open for sharing, appears on
counter of office mini-kitchen. Dots:
clear liquid? Discuss.
Initial determination: yes. Gummi
bears allowed (though not red); Dots
basically G.B.s in different form — proceed. Dig
into box, careful to avoid non-red ones. Note
that germ-wary co-worker is observing
process, observing germy fingers mashing through box.
Decide not to care. Eventually,
triumphantly, pluck three or four
non-red candies out. Consume: delicious. In process of eating last one, realize Dots
not translucent, like G.B.s or gummi worms. Dots
not truly clear. Stop
eating Dots. (Later,
while typing journal, ponder for way
too long how to spell “gummi,” as in the candy; note that Microsoft
Word finds
this spelling erroneous; then note this is spelling on packaging;
overrule Bill
Gates et al. Also wonder if, in attempt
to get calories while maintaining clear diet — gummi candies, Gatorade,
sorbet
— blood-sugar levels have skyrocketed. Wonder
if any documented cases of Crohn’s-sufferers
becoming diabetic
overnight after ingesting so much sugar/high fructose corn syrup, and
nothing
else.)
11:30 a.m. First
group of co-workers begin eating
lunch. Lips smack loudly.
Voices carry across office, discussing merits
of assorted meals, none consisting of gummies and Gatorade.
Noon. Stomach
growls. Again. More. Constantly. Time for
lunch, such
as it is. Open bag, remove bottle of
Gatorade and package of gummi-cubes manufactured by the Clif Bar
company and
purchased at REI. Basically: condensed
Gatorade, not very tasty. Instructions:
consume three to six for
each hour
of exercise, with large amounts of water. Exercise,
as in sitting at a computer and typing? Sure. Enjoy tactile sensation of actually chewing
something, not just drinking
or slurping (as in quick-melting sorbet at breakfast).
Note that Gatorade is lime-flavored,
gummi-cubes are orange-flavored: all meals of day will be artificial
contrivances of fruit flavors, mostly citrus. Curse
rest of day ahead.
12:30 p.m. More co-workers decide it
is lunch
time. Use microwave to heat food,
filling office with delicious odors. Note
that 24-hour window has arrived: no way to
justify cheating
now. Stomach grumbles in
frustration. Gulp more Gatorade. Discover that with each passing ounce, it
tastes more and more like what it really is, for all practical
purposes: sterile
sweat.
1:40 p.m. Doctor’s
nurse calls to do
“pre-check-in.” Confirm: don’t smoke, no
allergies, no fatal reactions to anesthesia. All
questions were answered, in same way, during
pre-op physical
previous week. And before procedure the
month before. And will be, again, at
check-in prior to procedure following day. Nurse
says get some “Hibiclens,” wash with it in
morning. Says it can be procured at any
pharmacy. Hibi-what?!
Have had lots of procedures/surgeries, never had to
wash with special
stuff. Odd.
3:00 p.m. Someone
prints chocolate cake recipe to
main office printer. Someone else
discovers, and goes around asking whose it is, apparently in hopes of
trading
baking tips. Torture, cruel and
unusual. Stomach howls in protest.
3:30 p.m. Co-workers
discuss dinner plans. Nice restaurant. Place you want to go. Like,
say, right now.
4:10 p.m. Yep:
sterile sweat.
4:30 p.m. Crunch
time – lots to do finish up before being gone for two days. Reassure co-workers of return on Friday. Reassure self. Not
sure, actually. Kind
of
terrified of what’s going to happen, actually. Boss calls, offers best wishes, asks how long
procedure will take. Two hours under
knife. Sudden realization: Holy fucking shit! Two fucking hours under the fucking
knife? Too much cutting!
Maybe more than two days to recover.
A week. Two. Ten. On a beach. Tahiti,
Virgin
Island, Florida Keys. Tropical breezes. Two
hours?! And another two to come out of
deep slumber of
anesthesia?! Yikes.
“Back on Friday,” call out disembodied words to boss. Reflex: reassure him.
5:00 p.m. Ride
arrives in 15 minutes. Panic.
Realize not everything going to get done. Dash off e-mails to co-workers, delegate
tasks,
beg for assistance. Create “away”
bounce-back message to go to correspondents in next two/three/ten/forty
days,
log off before co-workers can reply to turn down requests.
On seventh try, finally get through outgoing
voice-mail message without stumbling or stammering or laughing at self. Message promises callers prompt attention
upon return. On Friday.
Sure.
5:18 p.m. Slightly
annoyed call from ride, waiting
downstairs. Promise: “On my way down.”
5:23 p.m. Log off computer, wave to
co-workers, run out
door.
5:35 p.m. Arrive
at drug store, begin frantic search
for Hibi-what-the-hell-was-it? Hibiclens. First
pharmacist offers
confused look: What’s that? Disappears
behind rows of shelves packed with all manner of pills.
Eventually reappears. Eyelids
droopy: sampling prescriptions? An answer:
Aisle 14. Sure enough.
Grab some gummi bears on way to check-out. Pay. Proceed home.
5:45 p.m. In
car, start reading instructions and
warnings on bottle. To be used to
cleanse wound areas and regions to be operated upon.
One warning, explicit, its own bullet point:
“do not use in the genital area.” Think:
waitasecond. Think: surgery tomorrow,
lower rectal area. Lower rectal area:
pretty much genital area. Also: surgery
is to put in new setons – drains – in fistulas, to alleviate problem of
drainage. Drainage of pus, stool, gross
stuff. Translation: blotting antiseptic on
open
wound won’t keep wound sterile since wound will immediately re-fill
with . . .
crap, bacteria, non-sterile liquids. Thought:
Budget cuts at hospital forcing doctors to
forgo cleaning up
wounds themselves before operation?? No
other logical reason for asking patient with draining wound to blot
draining
wound with antiseptic five hours before operation.
Ineffectual, stupid, weird.
6:30 p.m. Sit
in tub to soothe open wound. Pick up
newly-acquired book. Fascinating,
captivating. Can’t put it down. Subject: food. Eating,
cooking, everything. Mouth-watering
descriptions. Mouth waters.
Stomach grumbles. Keep
reading,
enthralled but getting ravenous. Mind
sated by story; appetite not.
8:00 p.m. Gummi
bears for dinner. Multiple water chasers. Sorbet for dessert.
9:00 p.m. Kill time online, note that
favorite food
writer/critic has posted new column. Read
it. Mouth waters again; stomach offers
more protests. Curse phony-fruit-flavored
day that has passed and antiseptic-smelling one to come.
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