This is the story of a delusional man with a bizarre sense of humour and impeccable timing: my very own, Barry Patterson. Barry went in for reconstructive ankle surgery about 11 years ago. (For those of you who have read Dr. Duke, fear not! Things went much better this time.) He had a high school basketball injury that was never dealt with and after all those years, his ankle had essentially become just for looks. Before they put him all the way under, they were going to give him a leg block to deaden the nerves in his leg and make absolutely sure he did not feel anything. (They must have heard about how Dr. Duke made him “feel” some things.) This is, apparently, a rather substantial shot and you need to be made loopy to tolerate it.
They gave Barry some sort of loopy meds via his IV and were going to wait a few minutes for them to kick in. I was sitting beside his bed, feeling anxious about surgery, due to our previous debacle. The nurse was asking him some standard pre-surgery questions. She clarified with him why he was there and which ankle he was having surgery on. I helped answer the questions about his health history, allergies and emergency contact numbers. Then she looked straight at him and asked him what his name was. He told her his name and then she asked him if there was anything else they should call him. I knew we were in trouble when he replied, “You can calllll meeee Llllllucious…..”. What?! Uh oh. “Nope, just Barry. Just call him Barry.”
The nurse asked me to wait outside while they got the giant leg block needle taken care of. An anesthesiologist made his way in and I waited anxiously just outside the curtain. I was nervous about him being in pain but more nervous about what stupid stuff loopy Barry might say. After about 15 minutes, the surgeon came to have a chat with us and I was allowed back in the curtain room. Imagine a 10 ft x 10 ft space with the anesthesiologist, the surgeon, the nurse, me and loopy Barry in his hospital bed all squeezed in together. The surgeon explained the procedure to me but I was only half listening, as I was distracted by the stoogish look on Barry’s face. He was half-smiling, half-sleeping. Once the pre-surgery wife briefing was over, the surgeon told me I could “say goodbye now”. (Sidenote: perhaps suggesting a “see you later” would be less ominous, Mr. Surgeon.)
I looked him in as much of his eyes as were open and said, “You ok? Love you.” With one pirate eye open and the other lolling around inside his head, he said, to me, loudly, in front of his entire medical team, “Rememmmmber that tiiiiimmmme……..when you…….had on that bllllllue……belly dancing outfit?”. I spent about 2.5 seconds rapid fire remembering to check my history and see if I had actually ever done such a thing. Maybe I didn’t remember? How is that something one would forget? Do I bellydance? No, I do not. No, I never have. No, I have never worn a bellydancing costume. What the…..I responded by looking each person in that room square in the eyes for one or two words each of this sentence: “NO I DON’T BECAUSE THAT NEVER HAPPENED.” They all looked patronizingly back at me, like, suuuuuurrrrrre, never happened. They thought he was outing an intimate secret. He was straight up lying. I had to get out of there.
I leaned over the bed to kiss him goodbye (at this point I think I was fine with goodbye vs. see you later) and he reached up and honked my boob, in front of his highly amused medical team. I heard one of them snicker as I grabbed his hand and shoved it back down onto the bed. I teeth clenched out a “Goodbye, Barry” and backed out of that room as fast as my mortified feet could move.
Surgery lasted for 3 hours so I had a lot of time to rack my brains and try to think of why on earth he would say that. We had never even really seen belly dancers. Was there someone else who he had seen in a blue belly dancing outfit that in his stupor he was mistaking me for? What the heck? When he was lucid again, he was going to have some explaining to do.
When he awoke from surgery, they told me it was time for me to come back to see him. I entered the recovery room cautiously and stood more than one grabby man arm length away from the bed. Once I established that surgery had gone well (no severed arteries or blood geysers) and that he was somewhat coherent, I launched my interrogation.
“Do you remember what you said to me right before surgery?”
“Uhhhhh, no?”
“You asked me if I remembered that time that I had worn a blue belly dancing outfit.”
“What?! I did?? Phhhhhttttt…..”
“Yeah. You did. You said it in front of the whole medical team right before you squeezed my boob.”
“I DID????? That’s awesome.”
“No, no it isn’t. I have never worn a belly dancing outfit. Exactly who were you referring to?”
“Uh, I have no idea.”
“Really? No idea? That just came out of nowhere?”
“I guess so. Sorry.”
Apparently, by the time I made it to the recovery room, he had already told a nurse that, “This is just like Grey’s Anatomy.” God help me.
Barry has had one more surgery since then (deviated septum) and I handled it very differently that time. Now I know that loopy Barry will throw you under a bus that you never even rode on or drove. Strange imaginings will surface and inhibitions will go up in smoke. It is a far too hostile environment for me to subject myself to. I left the building as soon as they had a gown on him and I went shopping. The hospital called me to tell me he was out of surgery and I waited a good extra half an hour before I came to find him. I’m no dummy. I have read, “Boundaries” you know.
Update: as we have grown a tad older, we have started to care less and less what other people think. We both think each other is hysterical. I have decided that if he ever goes in for another surgery, I am just going to walk into the recovery room in a blue belly dancing outfit and make all his drug induced dreams come true.
I have had to lay ground rules for Doug and boob honking. Number One….Not. In. A. Public. Place.
What???? And he’s not even drugged. Hold your ground, lady.