The Original "Big Mac"

The Old Man is going to be working through this back thing for quite a few months, but I promise, I will not subject you to a constant barrage of medical information causing your eyes to glaze over and a united scream of "get a life" be mounted that can be heard by those aboard the International Space Station.  Today's post uses some of this info as a "tie-in".  Rest easy.

I was given a brace to be worn at all times except when sleeping in order to assist in protecting Mr. Dearly Departed's bone donor contribution now residing in my spine.  It needs 3-4 months to "take root" and complete the firming up process that should get me movin', groovin', shaggin' to the oldies, and otherwise enjoying life once again.  The brace calls up memories of my Uncle Mac and his back apparatus.

Saying Mac was a character is like saying the little lizard that peddles insurance on TV is a T-rex.

Harry McDonald blew into this world on August 27, 1895.  He served our country in the U. S. Navy during WW I, and came out determined to catch up on what he missed during his military days.  Mac was what the old folks called "a rounder".  "Whirlwind" is probably a better description.  Mac grabbed life like a shark would grab a ham.

At one time or another, Mac played what passed in those days for semi-pro football, hunted and fished at every opportunity, chased the chase-able, sipped the sip-able, and boxed just for the fun of it.  But Mac's true love was for motorcycles. He and a group of his buddies rode at will in the hills and over the dusty roads of Bedford, Roanoke, and surrounding counties.  In those pre-Marlin Brando "Wild Ones" days, Indian was the bike of choice and Mac and his buddies spent most weekends "war-pathing" somewhere.  Not looking for trouble, mind you, but just enjoying each other's company and the feeling of freedom that was gradually being encroached upon by the heathen god, Progress.

In this picture, Mac is the third from the right, with his arms crossed.  The guys were getting ready to trail ride up Sharp Top Mountain at the Peaks of Otter.  There's a road part way up now and a trail the last few hundred yards, all very civilized, but back then, you made your own way.  Some scratched their heads.....Mac just said, "Let's go".  At the top, celebration time.

There's Mac, front row-center with that ear-to-ear grin on his face.  I note that some of the other very well dressed biker dudes had a "holy crap we did this" look on their faces. But Mac was just caught up in joy.

After Mac died, I somehow ended up for a while with this huge leather brace thing he wore when riding.  It looked a little like a crude imitation of things I've seen weight-lifters wear from time to time.  It was most certainly hand made by Mac, as he was the complete tinkerer.  Made of solid, heavy leather with 3-4 buckles, I understand how it may have helped during those trail rides.  Mine is a conglomeration of plastic, nylon, and Velcro, I'm sure designed by some very smart people.  Mac probably said, "My back hurts, maybe a wider belt would help......let's see here".

My mom's sister lassoed the whirlwind and Mac calmed down...........a little.  He spent a career with the railroad, provided a good home, and retired in good stead.  He continued to tinker in his basement workshop and one day somehow managed to saw off a finger or two on a band saw.  He was home alone at the time so he soaked a rag in turpentine, wrapped it around the stumps and drove himself to the doctor.  Pure Mac.

Our girls remember Mac as a feeble, shuffling, probably kind of scary, old man, most often in a bathrobe, who would have moved heaven and earth to make sure he had a quarter to give each of them when we would visit.  

I've somehow managed to misplace his leather brace and I regret it deeply.  When I was younger, it was just something to move around and get out of the way, but now.....oh, but now.

Every morning, for a while, I'll buckle my orthopedic wonder around my waist and I fully expect to hear Uncle Mac saying, "Buckle up, boy....it's time to ride".

Splash-Down

The Old Man's space odyssey continues.
Either three hours or eight seconds later, this nice lady was leaning over my bed  welcoming me back to Earth.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson, how are you feeling?"  "How am I feeling?"  Hell lady, I don't even know where I am, and why do you look like Bette Midler with a full beard?  Com'on....give me a couple bars of "The Rose" so I can maybe figure things out.
I think I might have been a little better off asleep, because when I woke up again, Bette looked more like Brett and the whole beard thing made more sense.

I've learned a lot from the experience. For example; some nurses like to remain incognito.  One came to my bed and said, "Hello, my name is Sue."  The other nurse said, "That's not her real name."  Nurse 1 said, "Yeah, that's right but I'm going to remove your catheter, and I don't want you to hunt me down later."   It didn't take me but a minute to understand.  About 3-4 hours later, I discovered that another medical miracle related to that process had occurred.  Magically, they had figured out a way to turn ordinary urine into napalm.  If the Allies had known about this, WW II would have lasted 4 days.

Finally in a room of my very own, surrounded by friends and my treasured Miss Martha, realities became more apparent.  I became acutely aware of time.  I measured it in doses of pain medications, and programmed "wake-ups" for vital sign checks, drain checks.....say what?  "Drain checks"....there's stuff draining out of me?  Huh?  Suppose I need it?  And then one of the nurses made the true confession:  I needed to "void".  Lady, I've been in a void for the past 8 hours.  I've seen Bette Midler with a full beard, Godzilla in a tutu, Frankenstein's monster hitchhiking down I-40, and 4 pigs roasting me and my friend Gary on a cooker.  As she explained in a little less technical terms what she meant about "re-installation", I visualized a flame-thrower reversing itself and grabbed the walker at warp speed.

I'm doing a lot better.  The doctor says I'm "right where I should be" which is somewhat of a rarity in my life, and I must close with a word of high praise for the dedication, caring, and gentleness, I received in the hospital.  Personnel were attentive to my needs, the food was actually good, and my paths crossed with some dedicated people who gave no obvious thought to themselves.  Like the technician who came on duty late at night after working another job all day, and would continue to work a day job again after her shift was over.  By my count, she hadn't slept in at least two days, but her attention to me never wavered  and she showed no hint of frustration or impatience.  She was as gentle at the end of her shift as when it began.

 My whining ceased.

Adventures in The Twilight Zone

The Old Man recently returned from time-traveling back to an earlier era.  Surgery under deep anesthesia allows for visits to some interesting places in the company of a variety of characters that Rod Serling in his heyday would be hard pressed to dream up.

I'm presently recuperating  from a spinal fusion involving cages, rods, screws, and even some bone matter, involuntarily donated by an unknown person who now flies in other skies.  My friend, Jay, had a knee repaired several years ago using cadaver bone, and I'm convinced that it was from some dead world-class golfer since he now can hit the ball a gazillion yards.  Maybe I'll be able to sing opera, but considering my usual luck with things of chance, I'll probably have to have words of more than 5 letters explained to me.

Here's what I recall of my adventure.
I have heard rumors that there is indeed a time on the clock of 5:30 A. M., but have mostly been successful, until now, of not confirming that depressing fact.  By 5:45, my dignity took a hit and I had to put on a dress.  They gave me a blanket and when I remarked I wasn't cold, they said, "Yes, but you seem to be pretty unaccustomed to wearing a dress, so.............

Wonderful friends came and had prayer with us, and then it was "post time".  Down the hall to be prepped, by now, paranoid about holding my blanket, we sailed into a room with other folks scrambling to manage their blankets as various people scurried about, or sipped coffee, or just quietly chatted.  I don't recall any of these folks names, but I'll call them something just for clarity.

Renfield said, "Now I'm going to set up your IV connection so we won't have to keep sticking you".  Good plan.  A minute or two after Ren's "stick and little burn", I heard him say, "Well, we didn't get the vein".  "We?"  I chanced a glance and my hand was dripping like a bag of blood worms that had been shot with a 12 gauge.    Let me guess, Rennie, "another stick and burn, right?".  This time "we" dead centered the little fellow.

I figured we'd use my new-found portal to add some type of goof-ball concoction to make things seem a little calmer.  I asked Renfield about this since my insides were jumping around like a Chihuahua who'd just lapped up 2/3 can of Red Bull if now was when they would give me a "little something" to say "down boy".  "We don't do that any more", he said.  "Seems people would forget that their doctor had been by to talk to them prior to surgery, so we had to quit".

Oh crap

I began to look around the room.  There were other people in various stages of "delight".  One lady was telling how this was her 4th back surgery, another was simply staring at the ceiling like a convict awaiting the governor to call the warden, and one guy was sound asleep with his tongue kind of hanging out the corner of his mouth, sort of like those old western movies where the cows were laying around the poison water hole.  In the meantime, the Chihuahua had finished the Red Bull and was  not content just to sit and nibble.

My doctor came by and had a short conversation with me, and as he walked away,  old Renfield either put a "little something" in my IV line or hit me in the head with a tire iron.

Next time:  The spaceship lands