I’ve unintentionally created a biography. A biography recorded by an eight year-old with a bobbed haircut and the longest fingers and toes you’ve ever seen on a child of her age. Much to my dismay in addition to her super cute appearance, she has an incredibly accurate and lengthy memory. Years ago (and for this update) as a term of endearment I called her “Wonton”. She hears everything and absolutely nothing slips by her. It’s almost eerie. And at the moment when you least expect it, out of her mouth will come a story or line from your past that you don’t even remember saying. She truly has total recall. Hopefully, what you hear is a memoir of the time you left the hamburger meat from your grocery visit out of the refrigerator overnight only to find a horrible smell wafting from your kitchen the following morning. These are fun stories you like to recall. Other times, the story you would rather let pass-by without notation, but wonton just happened to catch you in the moment of verbiage regurgitation which is then forever sealed in the vault of her genius.
It was totally unintentional, I promise, as I did not at the time have full use of all of my faculties. I was under the influence. Slightly held captive by an outside force. A trio cocktail of intravenous kidnappers. Versed, you know you are to blame along with your nasty roommate, Propofol, and the guy down the hall, Dilaudid. You are to blame for her exposure to my temporary insanity. Most of you know the story already. You read it almost a year ago this week, but if you missed it you can check out “April 8, 2013- Houston, we have a problem”. You’ll recall an over-zealous excitement of mine after learning I did in fact get my Implant returned. I came out of the OR, recovered in the PACU, and led each of the nurses, a surgical fellow, and even my husband, who unfortunately didn’t have the foresight to duct tape my mouth closed, in a rounding chant of Implant....Gimme a “I”, gimme me a “M”, gimme me a “P”, gimme a “L”….well and you get the big picture. We were all chanting at the top of our lungs pouring out our excitement for this crazy lady (that would be me) in the OR who was beside herself when she found out she got her boob back. And it doesn’t even end there! When they rolled me up to my room on the surgical unit, I followed it up with another just as glorious version of Gimme a “B”, gimme me an “O”, gimme another “O”, gimme a “B” while laying right there in the hallway as they swung my bed through the doorway. Holy moly, I did it again all in one day and this time with my entire family, several floor nurses, and low and behold total-recall-genius WONTON in attendance. Oh my, oh my, oh my. Anyone but Wonton! When my trio of kidnappers had faded into the background, and I learned of my verbal mishap, I was mortified. And don’t forget I work with these people! As months pass by, I secretly hoped that Wonton will slip into early dementia and forget the day I fell trap to the medication bondage. I’m oh so very hopeful that day will come. Surely it will come and my dignity may be restored for the long-term.
Just a few days ago a family member was scheduled for back surgery. A soon as Wonton heard about the upcoming surgery, she called up the family member and said “Are you going to talk crazy in your head like Sally did? Give me a “B” Give me an “O”….! Except you can spell B-A-C-K”. Hanging my head down in shame that another year has passed and the memory has only been solidified in her vault to be shouted out at any opportunity. I couldn’t be more excited to know my next procedure is scheduled on a school day. I might just slip under her radar. And Ron, maybe a little better wing man action this go round to prevent me from further total humility in the building where I come and go from work every day. Just saying.
