Sunday, April 13, 2014

The scars we carry through life.

            Here’s a little pointer I want to share with anyone ever thinking of moving to France. If you make an appointment over here…keep it. We learned this lesson from Caleigh missing a couple doctors’ appointments. She was then instructed to find another doctor.
            I had swelling in my lower abdomen…knock it off!....from over exerting myself… behave!...while working with large heavy stones. I made an appointment with my doctor and had an appointment for the following week. Well a week passes and the swelling is gone, but I don’t want to annoy him by missing the appointment, so I show up. After waiting the hour in the waiting room, I am ushered in.
            “Good afternoon Mr. Petterson. What seems to be the problem?”
            “Good afternoon Doctor Biamou…well I had swelling here (points) and it’s gone down.”
            “Let me see…(Unrobes) …Ah you had a hernia….you will need an operation.”
            “Um…O.K. good thing I didn’t skip my appointment.”
            “It is a very serious condition…if you don’t have this operation…it could be catastrophic if anything happened.”
            Then he calls the Marmande Hospital and sets up a screening for me. I attend two different observations and the operation is set for the following month. The surgery is a great success…as is proof as I am still sucking air, and not taking a dirt nap.
            After recovering for a few weeks, the bandage is removed and a scar is in the place where there wasn’t one before. It was my first real scar. I got smacked next to my right eye socket once playing Ice Hockey when I was younger, my own team mate as a matter of fact. But we all have scars…every single one of us.
            So I check out my scar and notice how irregular it seems. It’s serrated almost. I can’t help but imagine the scene during the operation.
            Picture two tables set up in a hospital operating room. One has a nice red checkered table cloth on it, the other is a white spotless ironed cloth. The doctors enter and start placing Cheese, bottles of red wine, and baguettes on the pristine white cloth. I am wheeled in semi-conscious and placed on the picnic table cloth. The anesthesia’s inserted and I’m out. The doctors then wave in the half dozen medical students and they commence carving up the baguettes. The doctors take note of how each student carves off a piece of baguette.
            “Why Claude…your knife work is being exquisite…I have drawn a line on the patient…please make the incision.” The doctor turns to fill his empty wine glass as Claude starts the incision. He turns and laughs and says.
            “No Claude…although it is being a very nice cut…I think you are to be using one of those very sharp pointy surgery knife thingy’s….you are not to be using the baguette knife…really…we have to eat with that.”
            Well, it does look as though a few apprentices had their hands in the incision; because it looks as straight as West Hollywood. But the surgery, the prescriptions, and nurse visits cost us a grand total of zero euros, so I really can’t complain.
            To finish on the subject of scars both visible and otherwise, it has to be how you look at them and not others. I remember one of my most memorable scars. I was 25 and had just moved to Southern California. I got a job as a construction superintendent in high end estate building. It paid well, but being young and going out it didn’t seem to stretch as much as I would have liked.
A friend told me he moonlighted at this dance place called Chippendales. He told me to just show up and once the music started, start taking off my clothes. The money would start being tossed on stage because all the housewives were bored and this was an escape for them.
Well not knowing the area too well, I asked around and was given directions. I had to pay to get in, and it seemed expensive to me…but you can’t make money without spending a little.
            I make my way over to the stage and brace up myself…being naturally shy. Well the music starts and I try to get into it, and finally I get a second wind and it’s going pretty well. I look around and all these women are crowding the stage…there are quite a few one dollar bills by my feet and so I turn it up a notch and loose myself. There must have been fifty dollar bills about the stage. Then I hear it…some guy starts yelling.
            “Are you insane?....what are you doing.” The women drown out his heckling by yelling louder. The guy jumps on the stage and I yell to him.
            “You can dance after this song…that money is mine.” I go back to dancing but keep my eye on him.
            Another couple guys get on stage in these stupid outfits, and I’m getting angry. “Get off the stage until I’m done.” No effect. The guys start picking up my clothes and trying to hand them to me. Then this tall guy stands in front of me and says.
“Sha…sha…shows over…yuk, yuk, yuk.”
            Well I haul back and punch the goofy son of a bitch in the kisser, then all these cops from Anaheim storm the stage, and I’m escorted off. The housewives start grabbing back their dollar bills.
I remember thinking how hard I worked, and then I get pissed at having to dance to “It’s a small world after all” and how inappropriate the lyrics were. Well I’m escorted out of the park and was astonished how many families’ brought their kids to a Chippendale s’ Adventure Park for adults.

(I should note that the above was fiction…other than the odd serpentine scar. And that I never danced topless or otherwise at the Disney park…located in Anaheim California. And Goofy and I have partied many times. Don’t get him started on he and Minnie…that’s a joke for the Disney brand lawyers as well.)