the little bastard
MJE seriously underestimated the depths to which she would be subjected when she thought she’d bottomed out what with being forced to lie in the gas chamber for hours on end. Turns out, the god of malicious medical technology was just warming up. The first indication was that the doc of the perpetually afflicted decided to double the number of sessions. The good news is that according to urban legend, the use of hyperbaric chambers reverses the aging process! By the end of these treatments MJE will likely be a prepubescent tween. Just my luck, on top of everything else, I‘ll get to go through adolescence again.
But the coup de grace is my new negative pressure wound treatment, a device that is the 21st century equivalent of leeches. Without going into the gory details suffice it to say it is not something to which you would like to be attached. The size of a pocketbook, housed in a black rayon carrier, and tethered to me with yards of latex tubing it is definitely not the accessory of choice. But there’s more! Not only does it make me look like a rental car agent (a woman stopped me in the Budget lot the other day and asked where she should return her car) but it emits an endless chorus of burps, gurgles and growls as if suffering from a particularly savage case of irritable bowel syndrome. Good luck trying to explain that to the people at the next table.
I was describing this god awful contraption to my cousin Salubrious and she commented that it sounded like a goddam suicide vest, which it might well be if I have to wear it for too much longer. With that in mind I imagined what the scenario might be if the little bastard and I tried to go through airport security. Its whirling dials, flashing statistics, tubes, wires and noxious noises would most certainly propel the bored TSA agents into a frenzy. They’d send for the bomb squad to dispose of it and I’d be dragged to an unmarked room by some attitudinous high school dropout in blue gloves. She wouldn’t believe my story about negative pressure wound treatment devices or read any of the informational brochures I’d brought. Without benefit of due process I’d be hauled off to Guantanamo with a hood over my head to spend the rest of my days in a cage with a bunch of religious crackpots.
Man, that gas chamber is starting to look positively inviting.