Nurse Ratched’s sledgehammer

My mom is hardcore about making sure I recover from this ankle break. Baby Silas and I have been staying with her for less than 24 hours, and Mom has already turned my tongue-in-cheek suggestion of a service bell on the end table into a reality. I have a miniature copper Liberty Bell, mini-crack and all, at my side. One shake of the bell means I’m hungry. Two shakes means I’m bored and need a new DVD to watch. Three means the pee jug is in danger of overflowing. You know, as of right now, I think the “pee jug” has made more appearances in my blog than my wife has.

My mom is one of the greatest resources I have. She’s devoted this entire week to serving me tirelessly, and I’m very appreciative of it, but she’s taken this tough-love, Nurse Ratched stance against letting me do anything for myself. Everyone else just lets me crutch around as I please and wear myself out. With Mom at the helm, my daily poop break is the only time I’m free of the bed. A couple more days of this and I might start faking bowel movements. I can’t wait to explain that memory to my therapist of the future.

I’m suddenly aware that a lot of people in our society do not have the luxury of taking a comfortable daily dump. I previously thought this to be an inalienable right, but I haven’t found a properly accommodating toilet since my injury. It might be up to me to design a line of roomy, welcoming toilets for the obese and infirm. Doublewide seats, leg rests, Sirius satellite surround-sound, built-in bidets, the whole nine. I’m not sure what the disposable cash situation is for the obese and infirm, but I bet with the proper political palm greasing, I could get Medicare to shoulder most of the burden.

Meanwhile, I’ve started to play around with the idea that my mom is so devoted to my recovery that she’s going to turn into Kathy Bates from Misery. I’ll be typing away on the laptop one sunny afternoon, and the door will open. She’ll say ominously, “You’ve been out of your room.” I’ll say no, I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’ll say, “Andrew, my little ceramic penguin in the study always faces due south.” Then, out will come the sledgehammer. It will be for my own good.

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I need to make a follow-up office appointment with the doctor who performed my surgery. I also need blood work to make sure the anti-coagulant I’ve been ingesting every day hasn’t thinned my blood to the Ally McBeal range*. Even more alarmingly, my pain pills are running dangerously low. When I stay in bed, the pain hovers at a dull, slightly annoying level. It’s like having a giant literal and metaphorical house arrest bracelet on. Except, instead of setting off an alarm at a parole office somewhere, the alarm goes off instantly all through my injured foot if I get out of bed.

I think my medication tolerance has built itself up this past week. The Ankle Bone Incident** is my first experience with popping multiple prescriptions at multiple times of the day. I’m not worried about potential for abuse personally, but now I see how when you’re bored and in pain and confined to your bed, you might want to reach for a little more of Mother’s Little Helper than the doctor has actually authorized.

Here’s a list of celebrities I promise I will not model my prescription drug habits after:

• Elvis Presley – way too fond of Fried Peanut Butter & Banana & Barbituates hoagies
• Rush Limbaugh – called Oxycontin pills his “baby blues”; also, hates everyone
• Michael “Jesus Juice” Jackson – no example necessary
• Marilyn Monroe – sleeping pills caused her to sound like she was half-awake when reading film dialogue
• Heath Ledger – you name it, dude was high on it
• Ol’ Dirty Bastard – painkiller/coke buzz made him invent the lyric “I don’t have no problem with you f***ing me / But I got a little problem with you not f***ing me”
• Pimp C – died from an overdose of sizzurp; I am not making this up
• Anna Nicole Smith – see “Heath Ledger”

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* = I dunno, the rest of her is so thin, I figure her blood is too. And how lazy is this 1998 reference, anyway? Like there hasn’t been a go-to anorexic actress to plug into this sort of talk show monologue punchline since then? One of the Olsen twins or something, right? I need to bone up on my plug-in cultural references. And Ally McBeal and the Olsen girls need to bone up on some baby back ribs.

** = Possible name of bad late-’90s alternative jam band already in existence? I need to bone up on my plug-in cultural references.