Well, it appears that the surgery went well, since I've got a report indicating that there are zero post-operation complications. Of course, now I'm in piercing, rending pain. The collarbone muscles that the neurosurgeons cut to get at my spine are connected to everything in my upper thoracic cavity. Breathing is hard, a swallow of water feels like a pine cone going down my throat, coughs are pure torment, and I haven't had the catastrophic misfortune of a sneeze yet, but have great justifiable cause to fear one.
That being said, I'm just going to blast out my shower playlist and run away before I get drawn into the big topics that the Atlantic Monthly magazine has tossed about recently, like women acting catty towards other women in the workplace, or Antifa violating the social contract of exclusive legitimacy of violence. I might also add at this point that, due to an enormous wound on my neck, I can't really shower, per se, but rather dunk my head and wash it before hosing off the rest of my body, avoiding the over-sized compress that conceals the steri-strips acting as temporary sutures. Steri-strips that would just as easily wash away in shower water as keep my insides from defying my skin and heading outside my body.
Here we go...
Almost a Narrative
Romeo and Juliet, by Dire StraitsTurning the Town Red, by Elvis Costello
More Today than Yesterday, by Spiral Staircase
Cruel, Crazy, Beautiful World, by Johnny Clegg
Auf Achse, by Franz Ferdinand
And that's it for me. I need to take some more medication and lie down for a while. The hospital kept me well juiced with Dilaudid, and I need to reckon up how I can match that dosage with my flavour of opioid.
Until next time, good night England and the Colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
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