Part 105 Clean scopes, ducks and sea monkeys


After a surgery, there is a tendency to be lazy the following day, so I indulge in that tendency by laying off work and finishing the book “1969”, a reflection of what the author considers to be a pivotal and exciting year in U.S. history. Becah spends the next day in a downtown Houston hotel complex for a getaway with lady friends. While there she receives calls from Drs. Ly- and Bl-s’ offices with good news about scans and biopsies – everything looks clean. The kids and I celebrate with yoghurt out followed by watching “Suite Life of Zack and Cody: the Movie” on TV.

On Saturday I wake up on the couch at 2:30 a.m. Brett had awakened me with his growling earlier and I had finally got back to sleep, only to be awakened now. I get up to go sleep in my bed. The kids are sleeping there and it is too crowded for me, so eventually I return to the couch. Sometimes you just accept this is what must be done.

This morning Bree’s softball team plays the Ducks. One of the girl’s dads wants to try his hand pitching the first inning. After having little luck eliciting hits, he asks me to throw in the second. I encourage him to try again, but before he can, another dad steps in to try. The results are similarly uninspiring. The head coach asked me to pitch the third inning. Trailing 3-0, we get three runs to tie. Before the fourth inning, one of Bree’s teammates comes up to me and pleads for me to pitch. We get four more runs, and even after the Ducks’ late rally, the final score is 7-6, Sea Monkeys. The victory insures my status as the pitcher of every game and each inning of those games thereafter. I am excited too because Bree hit safely two times and drove in two runs; she also caught the ball twice (a major feat in this league).

Now Dr. Co- calls her scope of my throat as being “perfect”. Not only is it aesthetically pleasing, but the whole system is functioning better since my visit with Dr. Bl-, who widened my esophagus as a bonus when she did the biopsy. With the assistance of a few glasses of chocolate milk, my dinner tonight of scrambled eggs, spinach, corn, and veggie sausage slides down easily.

The next day I drive to the medical center to discuss my next step of surgical options with Dr. Bl-. The front runner plan is to cut out the withered portion of my esophagus (saving the remainder), lifting up a section of my stomach, and attaching it to the good part of the esophagus. Dr. Bl- refers to herself as being a “mad scientist”, willing to experiment and take risks when needed. I don’t know if I should admire her bravery or wince at the prospect of reckless behavior going on in my insides. I think about this over a Mexican dinner at Ninfa’s where I fail at enjoying the margarita but succeed in downing a cheese enchilada, rice, and beans (it takes two large glasses of milk, however, for me to accomplish this).