Hey, Skips. Sir.
You’re not going to believe this, but I’d thought about sending my sincere best wishes for your brain operation this coming Tuesday, March 31,
before your pal Big Mo got all silly and accused members of conservativecave of being nasty people.
But after seeing the way Big Mo maligned decent and civilized people, I figured
for sure I’d better write this, so that the primitives are aware we’re good decent civilized people here.
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Anyway.
I’d be nervous about brain surgery; I had it myself, but only once, and I was three and a half years old at the time, too young to remember it. In case you’re not aware, Skips, franksolich preceded your idol Rachel Corrie by a few decades, excepting the outcome was different.
I’d run out in front of a car, and according to one eyewitness, was “smashed flatter than a toad that’s been stepped on.†Extensive damage to just about everything osteopathic, excepting for some odd reason, the spinal column, which remained intact.
Including a broken skull. Not a concussion, not a fracture, but a busted-up skull.
I’ll skip the details, as I want to keep this short, but anyway, the repairs were made—and not just the skull, remember—not in the emergency room, but on the counter separating the waiting room from my father’s office; he was administrator of a small-town hospital.
And the first surgical implement used was a letter-opener, to pry away a piece of the skull that was trying (but failing) to puncture the brain. Seconds counted, and there hadn’t been time yet for the hospital staff to move the emergency room to the waiting room.
In fact, it was four hours before franksolich was deemed “stable†enough to be moved to the emergency room.
These weren’t prominent brain surgeons here; just four small-town physicians and my father, who besides administrator was a registered nurse-anesthetist. And a small-town hospital, the sort of institution your idol Obama wants to drive out of existence because they’re too small to be any good.
The physicians had been medics during the second world war, in the Pacific, and had extensive experience putting back together shattered bodies. My father had been a civilian, but oftentimes was out on the North Sea, assisting Navy physicians in repairing American, Canadian, and British seamen—several times on sinking ships, they sloshing in water clear up to mid-thigh as they worked.
These non-brain surgeons got it right the first time, piecing back together my shattered head; according to newspaper accounts, it was thought franksolich was a goner, not likely to make it—but God, Who you disdain, Skips, was good. The “event†had occurred in mid-August; by the end of September, the lilliputian franksolich was already back home and running around as if it’d never happened.
But I don’t remember any of this, so I can’t, really, “relate†to your problem, other than that I feel badly you have it.
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Now, be sure to remind your pal Big Mo that we are indeed caring people.
