Elevator Music

I was devastated. Crushed. My world had collapsed. The words, “I don’t want to be married to you” echoed around in my head. I hovered perpetually on the brink of nausea.

For months I had hidden this news from all except my family but moving out of the house was a fairly public event. One of my staff members commented, “If you two can’t stay married, who can?” But that statement only shows how no one really knows what is going on inside your house, maybe not even you.

What had begun as casual laments that we were “not soul-mates” had degenerated into what an HR professional might call a “hostile homeplace environment.” Maybe there were things I could have and should have done differently but now it was too late, I was a piece of flotsam being tossed about in the surf.

I wanted to blame the arsenic. I really wanted to blame him, but at that point I did not know what he had done and how depraved he was.

About this time, only days after I informed my staff of the separation, I noticed an interesting phenomenon in the elevators at my office building. Women who worked in the building, not in my office and heretofore unknown to me, started making eye contact. They began smiling at me, saying “hi” or “good morning” and even attempting the 45 second elevator conversation. When I mentioned this to Diane, my saucy and faithful executive assistant, she explained it to me in her Texas drawl as follows:

“You got a good job, you’re a family man and you’re not butt-ugly.”

Well, I was indignant. After all, I was in mourning – the ring was still on my finger, there was still some hope, wasn’t there? And already the vultures had begun circling. I asked how these women found out and Diane shrugged, “word gets around.”

Most interestingly, the phenomenon lasted only as long as my world was falling apart – evidently I was exuding some pheromone that they picked up on. Even before the final decree was signed by the judge, once I faced reality and emotionally pulled myself together the smiles faded and the eye contact dwindled to nothing.

The scent had dried up and I was invisible again.

Okay, so it wasn't open heart surgery. . . .

September 19, 1984.

Today is the birthday of both my first girlfriend and my best friend during junior high school. I am careening toward my 29th birthday. I have not yet hired Adelle. Today my tonsils will be removed.

Only last week Elaine, the office administrator, reminded me that I was just a 28 year-old snot-nosed punk. Ace Garrion, MD, only a couple of years older than I am, is scrubbing for surgery. Elaine likes me and, if I was not blissfully married, she would not be unhappy to have me date her daughter who is in such a dead-end relationship. The drugs they put in the IV have made me very comfortable. Elaine reminds me of Lainie Kazan and the line “Welcome to my humble chapeau” flits through my mind and I giggle as they wheel me down the hall to the OR. Then I am Scott Free, Mr. Miracle, preparing to escape as they bring the mask close to my face and the last thing I remember is someone saying, “Count backwards from 100…”

Back up several years.

I never experienced pain, swelling or inflammation. What I had was fairly disgusting. The doctors (and I saw several of them) called them crypts. I had crypts in my tonsils where matter accumulated and bacteria grew resulting in chunks of halitosis. In my experience, people with extreme halitosis or body odor move blissfully through life, apparently oblivious to their potential to offend. Adelle was like that. Perhaps they don’t know or perhaps a well-meaning friend has told them and they either did not care or gave up trying to correct the problem.

I was hyper-aware of my problem and perfected a method of talking without exhaling. At least bi-weekly I had to harvest the crypts. This was even more disgusting than it sounds. I eventually made myself a tool for this task. As I mentioned, I had seen several doctors over the years about this and they all agreed that the only sure solution was to remove the tonsils, but none of them would do this, mumbling something about risks and elective surgery. After a brief bout of despair contemplating a lifetime of tonsil harvesting I knew that I had to take matters into my own hands.

Performing the surgery myself was a non-starter, so I set out to find a doctor who would do this for me. And I wanted a licensed, board certified surgeon – no back-alley tonsillectomy for me. I knew the doc had to be young and hungry, just starting a practice. I also knew that he or she needed some European education or training because US doctors had pulled away from surgery, preferring antibiotics and appliances to cutting. But in Europe, the tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy were still as common as influenza.

September 7, 1984.

And so my search eventually led me to Ace Garrion, MD. After listening to my tale of woe and a thorough examination he agreed, “those babies have to come out.” And, with a legitimate diagnosis of tonsillitis, the surgery would be covered by insurance.

September 12, 1984.

My only tonsil experience to date has been Bill Cosby’s album “Wonderfulness” and the week before surgery I find myself chanting, “ice cream, we’re gonna eat ice cream!”

September 19, 1984.

Throat dry … and sore… on fire. Can’t swallow… mustn’t swallow. The room came into focus. The blinds were drawn and the late afternoon sun left luminous stripes on the opposite wall.

I was not alone. In the other bed was a small snoring Asian man. A large matronly nurse offered me a sip of lukewarm water through a straw. Where was my ice cream?

Evidently there was a time limit on this outpatient surgery recovery room. As I was preparing to leave, the nurse woke my roommate and asked him who she should call to come and drive him home. Completely without comprehension, groggy and probably nauseous to boot, the little man stared back at her. Using the universal technique of communicating with those who do not speak your language, the nurse raised her voice. This continued, and each increase in volume level yielded nothing except increased apprehension on the poor man’s face. When the nurse grabbed the phone’s receiver and brandished it over his head while yelling her question again, a look of sheer terror spread across his face.

I should have intervened but I, too, was groggy and my throat really hurt and there was no ice cream and, honestly, the lady scared me. From that day forward my throat problem was gone and I have enjoyed excellent blood pressure, much as I did before the surgery. Ace still practices there, and I highly recommend him to anyone needing an ENT doc.

Thanks for stopping by. You guys are, for the most part, way above average!