Do I Really Kneed This?

           Here is what happens if you have a knee replacement and you live with Bob Hilton. First, he will use your walker as a footrest while enjoying some cookies. You will post this picture on Facebook, and many of your friends will think he had the knee replacement, and will wish him a speedy recovery.

      

    Next, he will make an AI video of you DANCING—yes, dancing—with said walker. To view this video, simply visit https://www.facebook.com/joniopolis

You will be twirling about, lifting the contraption over your head, and singing along with Michael Jackson’s Beat It. Once again, you post it, but many of your friends think it’s still Bob who had the surgery, and Bob’s walker that you're dancing with. 

Others will think it’s real, and that you have made a miraculous recovery.

          Both are wrong, so you decide to have a bowl of chocolate ice cream 

          Whether recovering from surgery or not, you can sit and enjoy my Youtube Mom videos, along with 10K other subscribers.

Heart Times

           I have been asked for more detail about our son’s heart surgery. But you know this is going to come with Richie’s trademark comedy.

          Here are the deets: Despite being only 41, he needed a double bypass due to blocked arteries (bad genetics he was told).  But even open heart surgery couldn’t stop him from finding the funny.  When asked for his blood type, he said, "A Plus."  Then, when another nurse told him how wonderful he was as a patient, Richie whispered to us, “Yeah, but most of their patients are in their 90s, so that’s a pretty low bar.”

          I’ve been trying to convince him to recuperate at our house instead of his, without much success.  When I told him about a great new TV show, I said, “So when you’re at our house recuperating, you can watch it.” He said, “I see what you did, there.”

          I also told him it's a miracle he's alive, that God must have a special purpose for him.  

          "I hope it's more than one," he said, "because otherwise if you accomplish that one thing, it's well, off you go."

          Bob and I saw a cute nurse with loads of personality and after she left the room we pointed out that she didn’t have a wedding ring. Eyebrows up and down.  Richie rolled his eyes, then later texted that she must have overheard us, because the next time she came in she was talking about her boyfriend.  Oops.

          At one point he was saying his car needs a new drive shaft. Bob began singing the old Texaco jingle, “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star…” and I joined in.  Then I glanced over at Richie in his hospital bed.  He was muttering, “Old people.”

          Three days after, when a friend asked how he felt, he said, "Well, the first day I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. On the second day I felt like I'd been kicked by a horse. And today it feels like I bicycled into a telephone pole." So... progress?

          He’s been discharged, and is now following orders not to drive, lift, push, pull, twist, or reach. And you don’t think I want to monitor this?

Check out my Youtube Mom videos, full of amazing life hacks. But you probably won’t find one about how to back off when your son has heart surgery.

All in Vein

          Folks, I just had an ultrasound and I can tell the gender! For those of you who think I could be pregnant, THANK  YOU for thinking I’m young enough. For those of you whose mouths have fallen open in shock (including St. Bob), here’s the skinny:

          I just had my final reconstructive surgery after breast cancer and a mastectomy (all went well, happy with results), but it took A SOLID HOUR to get an IV into my arm. My veins want no part of this. They scoot around, they collapse, and they finally play dead like an opossum.

          First, the nurse takes a stab—pun intended—at this goal. When that doesn’t work, she tries another spot. Then another. Finally she brings in a vein-finder machine and an additional person. Another swing and a miss.

          Eventually an ultra-sound machine is wheeled in, complete with gel. Now a new technician stares at the screen as he feels around in my arm with a needle, looking for a vein that will allow the storm troopers to breach the castle wall.  And, finally, it works.

          I told him if he sees a baby in there kicking around, there’s going to be trouble. Oh, and my gender is unchanged.

          However, my arm now looks like a new bakery item: Eggplant Muffins. Sure, they’ll probably taste weird, but the dark purple splotches definitely grab the eye.

          Meanwhile, how about we add a new category for the Olympics: Getting a needle into Joni’s veins? Although I’m not sure I want to volunteer for this.

The best thing to do when recuperating (or just self- isolating) is to read a great book. Find my faves right here!

The Nose Knows

I am a big baby. Not many people will admit to this, but I am fessing up to it in solidarity with other big babies all over the world. We try to act tough but we’re actually wimps.

I recently had to have a Covid-19 nasal swab before I could be admitted to the hospital for reconstructive surgery. Other adults had gone before me and did just fine.

I must have extra nerve endings, because it felt like that swab was going through my sinuses, then my brain, until  it bumped against the back of my skull.  And yes, St. Bob made the requisite jokes about nothing slowing the swab down.

But at least it was done. Now I needed to wait 24-72 hours for results. And, of course, they didn’t come in. We drove to the hospital on surgery day. We waited 2 hours. Still no results. Finally THEY DID ANOTHER TEST!  Turns out there’s a rapid one that only takes 45 minutes to get results. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WE COULD HAVE JUST DONE THIS ONE?

They swabbed the other side this time, every bit as thoroughly as the first one, which if I had OCD—which I do not—would have helped me feel a sense of balance. Instead I just felt a sense of YOWCH.

But the surgery went fine. On the drive home we got caught up in a high speed chase with a crazy driver zipping in and out, followed by 5 different police vehicles, sirens blazing.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the driver had done. And then I remembered another possibility: Maybe they just want him to get tested again for Covid.

          It’s much easier to deal with this pandemic if you have a good book to read. May I recommend any of the 25  I’ve written? Find them all here! (And then browse through my Youtube channel.)

Just Sign Here, Please

          In my last blog I told you I signed “Zorro” on all my hospital forms. This is absolutely true. My handwriting is so sloppy that it kind of looks like the way I sign Joni Hilton anyway. But St. Bob found out and was a bit concerned that I might get in trouble. 

          You mean worse trouble than having a mastectomy (twice, if you count the repair), then nose dermabrasion, then having lymph nodes removed? And I lost count of the biopsies in the clinical trial. I’d like to see what further “trouble” they can conjure up!

          Does he think this is going to go on my permanent record? I mean on Zorro's permanent record? 

          Or maybe he’s worried they’ll want to take everything back. Oh, be my guest!  Rewind that tape and return the breast and the lymph nodes? Sign me up. “Uh, here’s the tissue we removed, Ma’am.” And what can they possibly repossess-- stitches? I need those removed anyway.

          How about a lawsuit?  This I would welcome because I guarantee the judge will step down off the bench, come over to me and give me a high five. 

          Same thing happened when I was called to jury duty and then dismissed for being a comedy writer.

          Zorro it is.

Have you ever read a book by Zorro? Aha-- now you can. Well, sort of. Find all my books right here.

Alter Ego

Here’s how to look like a super spy. First, have a mastectomy that requires a drain. This handy tube will connect to a little bulb that looks like a hand grenade.  It will rest in a little pouch at your waist.

Now put on any top, shirt, or jacket. You will see a bulge that looks like you are totally packing heat, and lots of it. Folks will think you’re armed with a Glock and a silencer, maybe even a machine gun.

But wait, there’s more. Now have basal cell skin cancer on your nose, which will require a bandage (read: disguise). No one will ever be able to identify you in a lineup!

Last, be thinking of these daring superheroes when you’re in the hospital to have lymph nodes removed later. You’ll be filling out a zillion boring forms as if purchasing a condominium for crying out loud (well, that’s not all they’re for), and you’ll think, “Wait. I’m a caped crusader. I shouldn’t have to sit here and sign ‘Joni Hilton’ on everything.”

And you’ll realize your signature is always such a rushed mess that nobody can read it anyway, right?  And then you’ll do what I did on every one of those forms: You’ll sign them all Zorro.

And then you’ll order my books to read while recovering.

A Bandage a Day...

          I think we can all agree that police tape has at least one use.  But now I’m thinking it can be re-purposed to wrap me up after all my recent surgeries.

          Seriously, I’ve had 3 things within 3 weeks.  First, right before Christmas, I went under anesthetic again so we could repair the incision from my recent breast cancer surgery, which didn't hold. I say “we” but I had nothing to do with it. Then we (again, the royal “we”) sanded my nose.

          “What?!” you say? Yes, I had basal cell cancer on the tip—of course the tip because evidently I’m part unicorn—and the stitches came out on that one, too. So it healed all lumpy and on Dec. 31^st we had dermabrasion to smooth it out and now I am again wearing a big, beautiful bandage in the center of my face. Hey, you celebrate New Years’ your way, I’ll do it my way.

          And THEN, because we just can’t get enough anesthetic, we had my arm pit lymph nodes removed on January 2nd. Each of these breast deals comes with a drain. I’m telling you, I have more port holes than a ship!

          And yet another bandage.  So, since there’s no tape that says, “Don’t Look Here” I’m thinking police tape could cover me nicely and accomplish the goal of keeping doctors away.  Certainly better than an apple, right?

To  see me without bandages, check out my YouTubeMom videos. Scroll through-- there are hundreds on my channel, and it’s a great way to spend a wintry afternoon!

Are You Kidney-ing Me?

           Just before my surgery for breast cancer we learned that a dear friend back East is facing final stage kidney disease. This means he needs a new kidney, or he will have to do dialysis day and night, at home. I was teaching a writing class when I got the sudden impression that I should offer him my kidney.

          So, after class, I left a voice message for his wife, then drove home and told Bob.  “I figure if I’m already under anesthetic, then it’s one hospital stay and one recovery.”

Bob just stared at me.  “They can’t do that—they can’t do a mastectomy and a kidney operation at the same time!”

“Oh, please,” I said. “People  come in all the time after a traffic  accident and they need five things done at once.  What are they going to say—‘We’ll fix your punctured lung, but those broken legs are going to have to wait’?  Of course they can do it.”

He asked if I had considered the risks and that maybe this should be a couples decision, not one I make by myself in an impulsive moment.  Ah. Okay, I forgot about that part.

          “What are they going to do,” Bob went on, “tape it up in a Styrofoam cooler and then if it doesn’t make it, come back for the other one?”

          I’m pretty good at smirking. “I’m sure they can deliver it.”

          “We don’t even know if you’re a match,” he said. “And you’ve had kidney stones twice!”

          True, this might become a deep discount kidney sale, given that my kidneys like to churn out stones.

          “And you’re a cancer patient!”  he continued.

          Okay, maybe I am not the optimal donor. But my “as is” kidney is still on the clearance rack if he wants it. 

          The next morning we had another biopsy, and the women who mails off the tissue samples met us with a rolling refrigerated case.  I nudged Bob. “I’ll bet a kidney would fit in there,” I said.  He explained my “hare-brained idea” to her and she laughed until she cried.

          And that’s when I know my work here is done.

Aren’t you curious about the kinds of books I write? Most are humor but some are straight-up whatever.  Check ‘em out here.

Coming To

          You know I recently had a mastectomy. You know I find comedy in almost everything. And you know major surgery is usually done with anesthetic.  This, my friends, is the recipe for a very embarrassing cocktail.

          When I had my wisdom teeth removed at 19, I had a follow-up visit where all the nurses clustered around to tell me how hilarious I was under anesthetic.  This is never good news. 

          This time I recall just bits and pieces, so I can only imagine the parts I’ve forgotten.  Note to self: Never have surgery at that hospital ever again, lest you run into the same surgical team.

          Just gaining consciousness after the procedure this time, I noticed a young male nurse fidgeting with the wires and tubes attached to my chest.  “Don’t cut the green wire,” I said, “or we’ll all blow up.”

          I yammered on and on (this much I remember) and finally, a little worried, said to one nurse, “Am I the most talkative patient you’ve had?”

          She just looked at me, then said, “So far.”  What—in her entire career? Marvelous.

          Soon St. Bob and Nicole were ushered in.  The surgery had taken almost five hours, so they had gone to the hospital cafeteria for lunch. I asked them how it was and Nicole said it wasn’t great.  “Shocking,” I said. “You do know they have three Michelin stars here.” Well, seriously, this is a hospital-- what did you expect?

          In my room I dictated some notes on my phone to ask my surgeon when she came in.  But you know how auto-correct is.  So when I finally saw her, I scanned my list and saw, “Did you save Nepal?”  And, apparently she is a superhero in her spare time, because she definitely saved Nepal.

Whether you’re laid up in bed or running around, check out my books (and they make awesome Christmas gifts, too!)     

Looking for Hay in a Needle Stack

           Here’s how my kids react to medical procedures.  First, the back story: Last week I had another breast biopsy and blood work, then because I am a glutton for punishment I had my MOHS skin cancer surgery on my nose the following morning.

          I asked if I could bring St. Bob in for the biopsy but they said no. I explained that he’s my emotional comfort animal. They still said no. (I may have to get him a vest.) Finally they bandaged me up, put me on ice, and sent me home. (No photo of the breast, thank you.)

 Then the next morning I arrived at another office at 7:45 for more blood work and to have my nose deadened with approximately two thousand needles before having a portion of it removed. Between this and the breast biopsy I feel like an organ donor who isn’t even dead, yet. This isn't me, but you get the idea:

In the middle of it all, I texted my boys to give them an update (our daughter was there already). Here is the exact thread of the text:

Cassidy: That’s great to hear, good luck with the procedure today!

Richie: 10/10 update.  Would read again.

Me: Your text looks like it’s the 10^th part of something.  Can you resend?

Richie: Nope, I was just rating it a 10 out of 10.

Cassidy: I’m screenshotting this.

Me: Ha ha!  I’m sitting here with a bandaged nose and I needed that laugh. (Then later, after surgery) Well, this morning they only had to do one scraping, so that’s good. But I have an incision from the bridge of my nose to its base. I have to wear a pressure bandage so I look like an elephant but hopefully I’ll be doing better soon. She told me no yoga, no strenuous exercise, no brisk walks. I told her she was describing my current lifestyle, so no problem.

Brandon: Ha, you were made to recover from nose surgery!

Richie: I can’t help but wonder what exactly the doc is worried will happen if you suddenly take up yoga.

Brandon: It could explode.

Me: That is exactly my fear and why I have never done it before.

Brandon: Yoga nose.  That’s what happened to Michael Jackson.

Me: I knew it! Sometimes the answer is right under your, uh, nose.

Brandon: The first recorded example was the Sphynx.

Me: And see? He’s sitting there doing that doggie pose. Or cat pose.

So there you have it, folks.  Brilliant medical analysis, and all at the click of a button.  (You can also buy my books with the click of a button right here.)