Driving Mr. Daisy
In a moment of poor judgement, Mr. Daisy asked if I would take him to the hospital for surgery. I am not even a good candidate if you need to be picked up from the airport. I have rules when I drive: 1.) Do not touch my stereo, and 2.) Only scream if I am screaming.
I agreed to do it. That was before I knew it was surgery on his hammer toe. When he told me, I giggled. "Hammer toe" sounds an awful lot like "camel toe" to me.
I have never seen a hammer toe. I asked to see it. Mr. Daisy refused. He knows that I have a strange fixation with disgusting feet. "I don't want to see my feet on your blog," he said. "Trust me," was all I said. It is ridiculous that he trusts me enough to drive him to the hospital, wait in the hospital bar until he's ready to go, and then drive him home, and yet I am not trustworthy enough to see the hammer toe.
When I picked Mr. Daisy up, I found him slumped over and drooling into a newspaper. I slapped him. He had taken a Xanax. "A little anxiety about the procedure?" I asked. "No, it's for your driving." I would like to state that I drive just fine. It's the talking on the phone, finding the right song, plucking my eyebrows, and applying mascara that get in the way.
The Xanax pretty much knocked Mr. Daisy out by the time we got to the hospital. I filled out the paperwork to the best of my ability. I am now next-of-kin.
The 30-minute procedure took all day. The surgeon took several time-outs and there was a half-time show before the insurance clock ran out.
I was getting hungry. I found the cafeteria. The smell of hospital food wafted through the air. The door was locked. Lunch ended at 2:30. Time on my phone: 2:36. The snack bar was in the new wing, past ICU, past Labor and Delivery, and past the psych ward (stopped in to apologize for the time that I smeared my feces on the wall). By the time I reached the snack bar it was almost 4 o'clock. I grabbed a tray and sensibly selected a grilled chicken salad and green beans. Also, I selected a slice of pizza and a bowl of soft serve ice cream and chicken tenders and a slice of yellow cake and a Diet Coke with Lime.
Finally, the nurse called me to let me know that it was time to pick Mr. Daisy up. They wheeled him out. His right foot was in an open-toe boot with a velcro closure. I was the two-inch long yellowed toe nail and the chicken fingers in my stomach churned.
When we got in the car, Mr. Daisy produced a vial filled with clear fluid. He reached over my shoulder from the back seat and shook it in my face. A little eggshell colored orb danced inside. "Here's what they removed!" he proudly exclaimed. I screamed in disgust and swerved into oncoming traffic.
Mr. Daisy popped another Xanax.