Say Cheese
My littlest sister had surgery the other day. Well, maybe surgery is pushing it a bit. She had her tonsils taken out, and for anyone who's had to sleep in the same county as her during the 19 years of her life, the operation is like manna from heaven.
In Florida, for example, the room I share with my brother is separated from our sisters' room by a bathroom. I'm not at all exaggerating when I say that we must fall asleep with the sleep timer on the t.v. to drown out her snoring. The poor girl sounded like a freaking freight train. Her roommates at school--nay, her entire dorm--must have wanted to kill her.
As it's my parents' 31st wedding anniversary tonight, they asked if I'd come over and babysit. I dutifully obliged.
When I walked into the den, my sister was sitting on the couch under a big synchilla blanket, looking no worse for the wear. I brought her a dozen roses as a get well gift, and she really loved them. Since her throat is still pretty much raw meat, she smiled and pointed excitedly at two wristbands sitting on the end table next to her. The first was the standard green job that lists her name, emergency phone number, doctor, etc. The second was a yellow bracelet upon which someone had written "parmesan cheese," to which she is extremely allergic. My mom said the nurses got a real kick out of that one.
After my parents left, and my sister had a milkshake or two, she decided she was up for talking.
She delivered the standard conversation intro common to any statement made by every teenage girl in America. "Oh my God. Pat, want to see something totally gross?" Her look was a compromise between shock, surprise, and disgust.
"What?" I asked. "Did they give you your tonsils in a jar or something?"
Her expression of shock did not change as she began her story, in a quiet and raspy (and decidedly less nasal) voice.
"So they didn't knock me out for the operation. I was up the whole time. The nurses just kept pumping me with drugs, though, so I was pretty out of it. It took four minutes to do each side, and I remember being all groggy and complaining to the doctor that he must have missed something, because it felt like it took thirty seconds.
"The doctor ignored my insane cries and said, 'O.K., take your left arm out from under the blanket.' I did. Then he said, 'Now, give me the thumbs up sign.' I did. Then he said, 'Now smile.' I did. Then the motherfucker whipped out a fucking Polaroid and took this."
With that, she dramatically produced a photo of her, giving the thumbs up sign and smiling, with her two tonsils laid right on her chest. It was like something out of Silence of the Lambs. My dad later said he didn't think that doing such a thing was illegal, just in really bad taste.
My life is like a sitcom. I couldn't make this shit up.
In Florida, for example, the room I share with my brother is separated from our sisters' room by a bathroom. I'm not at all exaggerating when I say that we must fall asleep with the sleep timer on the t.v. to drown out her snoring. The poor girl sounded like a freaking freight train. Her roommates at school--nay, her entire dorm--must have wanted to kill her.
As it's my parents' 31st wedding anniversary tonight, they asked if I'd come over and babysit. I dutifully obliged.
When I walked into the den, my sister was sitting on the couch under a big synchilla blanket, looking no worse for the wear. I brought her a dozen roses as a get well gift, and she really loved them. Since her throat is still pretty much raw meat, she smiled and pointed excitedly at two wristbands sitting on the end table next to her. The first was the standard green job that lists her name, emergency phone number, doctor, etc. The second was a yellow bracelet upon which someone had written "parmesan cheese," to which she is extremely allergic. My mom said the nurses got a real kick out of that one.
After my parents left, and my sister had a milkshake or two, she decided she was up for talking.
She delivered the standard conversation intro common to any statement made by every teenage girl in America. "Oh my God. Pat, want to see something totally gross?" Her look was a compromise between shock, surprise, and disgust.
"What?" I asked. "Did they give you your tonsils in a jar or something?"
Her expression of shock did not change as she began her story, in a quiet and raspy (and decidedly less nasal) voice.
"So they didn't knock me out for the operation. I was up the whole time. The nurses just kept pumping me with drugs, though, so I was pretty out of it. It took four minutes to do each side, and I remember being all groggy and complaining to the doctor that he must have missed something, because it felt like it took thirty seconds.
"The doctor ignored my insane cries and said, 'O.K., take your left arm out from under the blanket.' I did. Then he said, 'Now, give me the thumbs up sign.' I did. Then he said, 'Now smile.' I did. Then the motherfucker whipped out a fucking Polaroid and took this."
With that, she dramatically produced a photo of her, giving the thumbs up sign and smiling, with her two tonsils laid right on her chest. It was like something out of Silence of the Lambs. My dad later said he didn't think that doing such a thing was illegal, just in really bad taste.
My life is like a sitcom. I couldn't make this shit up.
posted by Pat at 12:17 AM
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