To the doctors, to be prodded, spiked, weighed and questioned. When I wrote in the post-op blog piece that we are tubes, I had that reinforced today. I used to work in a big new building in town, and would occasionally have reason to go to the plant room. It was a vast, hissing, steaming, pipe-strewn place delivering all the stuff to the otherwise tidy, sterile building. It was the belly, the innards, the ugly essential. Bones, muscle, flesh are just the scaffold for tubes. Our brains - our consciousness - is just the tube control panel. Its not even essential any more. It can die, and with respirators and such, the tubes can keep flowing. Reproduction is delivering some tube info down a tube into another tube, where it mixes with other tube info to make another complexity of tube that then is ejected down a tube and, with the severing of a connective tube, goes off into its own tube life. Anyhow. Diagnosis, pending blood tests, is that my tubes were disrupted by the injection of gas they use to push the tubes off the scaffold during the op. That gas takes ages to reabsorb and the more active you are, the less chance it has. So I have to rest. I protested that I havent been that active, but it didnt ring true as I arrived there by cycle. I didnt tell him I absentmindedly tried to move a piano yesterday. So its painkillers and more rest. Painkillers Im cool with, but I have some form of ADHD so resting for me is an alien concept. How does one do nothing? I get agitated at the thought. I have no idea how those blokes you see do it, the blokes you see in Wetherspoons in the day, sitting alone, no reading material, sitting alone staring into space with a seldom-sipped pint. What Zen mastery do they possess?
Posted on: Tue, 13 Jan 2015 10:57:59 +0000