The Shot Gun Wedding Between A Beautiful Greek Doctor And a Sicilian Sailor
It all started in the shower.
I was doing what I do daily, while singing, "How Great Thou Art."
Isn't it amazing how beautiful our voices sound with the acoustics of a tile enclosure? If I were not electronically challenged, I think I would install a recording studio.
Anyway, I had reached the part about," Mighty Thunder" when I notice a suspicious lump in my groin. Since I have had the experience of two hernias before, I realized that this was an encore.
So, being a veteran and enjoying the privilege of medical care, I headed to the emergency room at the Stratton V.A. Hospital in Albany. I explained my symptoms to the admitting nurse and she took me into an examining room, told me remove all my clothes except my shorts and gave me a gown to put on. I am sure you are familiar with the hospital gowns that cover everything except your rear end. It never ceases to amaze me that we can put a man on the moon but not invent a better cover up. Is there anything more ludicrous than a grown person, male or female, trying to keep their dignity in one of those monstrosities? Anyway, I was instructed to lay down and cover myself with a sheet, And the wait for the doctor began. I could think of a thousand places I would rather be. Patience and prayers were the order of the day.
Finally, the curtain parted and in came the most beautiful woman I had seen in a long time. She looked like a young version of Sophia Loren. Could this angel be my doctor? I had never been examined in all my eighty eight years by a female physician. My face reddened and my heart beat faster. She introduced herself and must have realized how apprehensive I was because she engaged me in conversation. "Mondello", she said. "That's a resort town in Sicily. Have you ever been there?' I told her I had and she explained how she was from Greece and often went there as a child. So we made some small talk about Sicily and finally she said, "OK! Let's get down to business!. She yanked off the sheet and flippantly disposed of my shorts tossing them on a counter nearby.
And there I was.. my shrinking manhood exposed for all to see.
She then began the intimate examination involved in diagnosing a hernia.
Believe me, she was quite thorough.
When she finally finished, she said, "Now that wasn't so bad was it?
I blushingly replied, "No, but now you have to marry me."
She laughed and said, "Oh! That's right. You're Sicilian."
And so began my hernia adventure,
The diagnosis was confirmed and the wheels began to turn. An appointment was scheduled to meet with the surgeon who was privileged to repair what was broken.
My surgeon was a man of about sixty and I was immediately put at ease when he described his credentials. He explained that the procedure would be a simple one with a small one inch incision, a two hour operation and home the same day. Probably back to work in a week. He asked me if I had any questions. I had only one. Was he apprehensive about operating on an eighty eight year old patient. He said, "Ordinarily I would be concerned, but you are in better shape than I am." I wasn't sure whether I should be encouraged by that.
Anyway, the date was scheduled and the die was cast.
The worst part about the morning of the surgery was the fasting and getting up at 4:30 to be in Albany at 6:30 for the cutting. From thence on everything went according to plan. My reliable daughter Marianne was my chauffeur and companion. My, just in case, prayers were said and I was wheeled into the operating room.
Like most things in life, unfortunately, things did not go according to plan. The two hour operation turned into a three and a half one. The one inch incision became a seven inch scar (There went my bikini days for ever) and I was hospitalized instead of going home the same day. A previous operation in the same area prevented the ordinary access to the damaged site.
However I survived. My last will and testament went back in the safe and I went home happy to be alive.
When my children were young and innocent, I would show them my belly button and tell them that it was where the Indian shot me with the arrow. They would stare at it with amazement allowing their unspoiled imaginations to run rampant. Now I will tell my Great grandchildren that the Indian hit me with his tomahawk. Same story only magnified.
So I allowed myself to be spoiled and enjoyed the recovery with a minimum of discomfort. I was a survivor. Scarred, embarrassed and bruised but still counting my Blessings.
P.S. Unfortunately, there was no, "Big Fat Greek Wedding."
I was doing what I do daily, while singing, "How Great Thou Art."
Isn't it amazing how beautiful our voices sound with the acoustics of a tile enclosure? If I were not electronically challenged, I think I would install a recording studio.
Anyway, I had reached the part about," Mighty Thunder" when I notice a suspicious lump in my groin. Since I have had the experience of two hernias before, I realized that this was an encore.
So, being a veteran and enjoying the privilege of medical care, I headed to the emergency room at the Stratton V.A. Hospital in Albany. I explained my symptoms to the admitting nurse and she took me into an examining room, told me remove all my clothes except my shorts and gave me a gown to put on. I am sure you are familiar with the hospital gowns that cover everything except your rear end. It never ceases to amaze me that we can put a man on the moon but not invent a better cover up. Is there anything more ludicrous than a grown person, male or female, trying to keep their dignity in one of those monstrosities? Anyway, I was instructed to lay down and cover myself with a sheet, And the wait for the doctor began. I could think of a thousand places I would rather be. Patience and prayers were the order of the day.
Finally, the curtain parted and in came the most beautiful woman I had seen in a long time. She looked like a young version of Sophia Loren. Could this angel be my doctor? I had never been examined in all my eighty eight years by a female physician. My face reddened and my heart beat faster. She introduced herself and must have realized how apprehensive I was because she engaged me in conversation. "Mondello", she said. "That's a resort town in Sicily. Have you ever been there?' I told her I had and she explained how she was from Greece and often went there as a child. So we made some small talk about Sicily and finally she said, "OK! Let's get down to business!. She yanked off the sheet and flippantly disposed of my shorts tossing them on a counter nearby.
And there I was.. my shrinking manhood exposed for all to see.
She then began the intimate examination involved in diagnosing a hernia.
Believe me, she was quite thorough.
When she finally finished, she said, "Now that wasn't so bad was it?
I blushingly replied, "No, but now you have to marry me."
She laughed and said, "Oh! That's right. You're Sicilian."
And so began my hernia adventure,
The diagnosis was confirmed and the wheels began to turn. An appointment was scheduled to meet with the surgeon who was privileged to repair what was broken.
My surgeon was a man of about sixty and I was immediately put at ease when he described his credentials. He explained that the procedure would be a simple one with a small one inch incision, a two hour operation and home the same day. Probably back to work in a week. He asked me if I had any questions. I had only one. Was he apprehensive about operating on an eighty eight year old patient. He said, "Ordinarily I would be concerned, but you are in better shape than I am." I wasn't sure whether I should be encouraged by that.
Anyway, the date was scheduled and the die was cast.
The worst part about the morning of the surgery was the fasting and getting up at 4:30 to be in Albany at 6:30 for the cutting. From thence on everything went according to plan. My reliable daughter Marianne was my chauffeur and companion. My, just in case, prayers were said and I was wheeled into the operating room.
Like most things in life, unfortunately, things did not go according to plan. The two hour operation turned into a three and a half one. The one inch incision became a seven inch scar (There went my bikini days for ever) and I was hospitalized instead of going home the same day. A previous operation in the same area prevented the ordinary access to the damaged site.
However I survived. My last will and testament went back in the safe and I went home happy to be alive.
When my children were young and innocent, I would show them my belly button and tell them that it was where the Indian shot me with the arrow. They would stare at it with amazement allowing their unspoiled imaginations to run rampant. Now I will tell my Great grandchildren that the Indian hit me with his tomahawk. Same story only magnified.
So I allowed myself to be spoiled and enjoyed the recovery with a minimum of discomfort. I was a survivor. Scarred, embarrassed and bruised but still counting my Blessings.
P.S. Unfortunately, there was no, "Big Fat Greek Wedding."
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