Perhaps he felt he wasn’t getting enough attention. He is an asshat after all.
Monday morning, I sit up at 7 a.m. The day’s roster is filled with activities of the grocery store and office supply store variety. Middle Chicken will accompany me. She is not convinced I am safe out in the world alone. Depends on the day whether she’s right. Pfft.
Getting out of bed I notice Gus is up to something. There is a funky goo coating his covering and seeping from underneath.
Peeling back his protective cover, I find Gus trying to leave the building. Remember, he is a tube. The stitch that keeps the tube from falling to the floor when one stands up has popped and Gus hangs at an odd angle, ooze flowing out the tiny hole that makes way for him to be inserted in my stomach.
You don’t want to see what’s inside your stomach. Food sure as hell doesn’t look like that when it goes in. It makes me rethink the stomach as a friendly organ. God only knows what goes on down there.
I wake Middle Chicken and tell her we have to go to the emergency room.
“Gus has tried to escape.”
As we walk to the car she says, “Did you put on makeup?”
“Uh, yes. We are going to the hospital,” say I. Is this child mine? Did all that studying for the bar affect her brain in some way?
Tip for Scottsdalians—Scottsdale Shea is not busy early morning Labor Day. Just tuck that away in your Rolodex of knowledge. People always complain about the wait at the ER. Not so much—just go early on a holiday morning.
The doctor is a baby; cute as a button, but a baby nonetheless. He examines Gus and how he’s attached and questions what happened. He touches him gingerly and I realize this child has probably never even seen a feeding tube. He says he has to consult with radiology. Evidently radiologists get a little possessive of their work.
The radiologist calls for an x-ray to show where Gus has migrated. Is he still in the stomach or has he packed his bags and moved to the wall between skin and organs? Or has he simply gone to a club in Old Town?
Turns out he’s right where he should be. He’s just playing games again. A shot of lidocaine to the tummy and a stitch to keep him where he should be does the trick and we are on our way.
The lidocaine wears off halfway to the office supply store. All I need in the whole world is the next calendar section for my planner. I ran out of months in June. My life hasn’t been the same. Those of us who write down everything, color-coded by heading, to remind us of the joy each day holds are lost without our planners, colored pens and Martha Stewart page tabs.
This morning features the dull ache that comes along with stitiches. I sip a green concoction blended in my Nutri Bullet and scoff at Gus.
Nice try buddy. You will never beat me. As God is my witness, you will never show me the contents of my stomach again.
The Duchess Diaries 