Ms. Muhacca Hussein, RN

Three AM found me in the darkness of my hospital room pushing my Nurse Button while shouting “Sweet Holy Jesus, Somebody Get Me Something for Pain.”  I’ve been at it a while.  According to the clock it has just been five minutes but I know they slow down the damn clock when it gets close to the time for some small bit of relief.  

I’m here, in the dark, betwixt antibiotics flowing into my body because a doctor decided I needed to have a lung biopsy.

“It’s a very common procedure with very little pain,” the Doctor had said.  Well, if The Doctor said it, it must be true.  The Doctor also felt the biopsy was a grand idea.  He would, no doubt, deliver immediate insight and results.  The Doctor is your friend, don’t you know.

It’s time for another scream because the pain has moved from Hurting Badly to Just Shoot Me, Dumbass.  Somewhere on the second use of the “bitch” word, a word interchangeable with the little Pakistani nurse, she opens the door.  Finally, I am out of the dark. 

“Mr. Manley, what is wrong with you? Such cursing I have never heard,” she sounds like Apu from the Simpsons.  Except female.  I think.

“Well, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me", Nurse Ratchet-Hussein, "it seems that yesterday they poked four nice sized holes in my side.  They inserted a little pair of scissors and snipped and pulled out healthy lung tissue.  Then, they left a tube they could be used for farm irrigation coming out of my side to drain off fluids.  Said tube is now flowing like a river and believe it or not, there is a tad of pain.”

“You use too much pain medicine I think is the problem, Mr. Manley.  It is not good to use so much.”

“Look you little Nurse Ghandi Nightingale, you will bring me my medication or I will scream rape at the top of my lungs.  Now, how would you like to explain that accusation.”

“I think you are crazy patient.  But here is pain medication.  Are you sure you need such a dose as ordered by your doctor.  Your doctor left too much, I think.”

If it was up to Nurse Ghandi , Tylenol would be a controlled substance. She checks my armband and sees if I really am who I seem to be.  She thinks, perhaps, I snuck in, killed off Reece Manley, hid his body under the bed all for 3mg of Dilaudid.

 

After delaying the action of administering the damn shot as much as she could, she slams the full amount.  My body almost immediately puts the pain reliever to work on the bandage as quickly as it can.  However, it cannot not post it up to the right nerves quite as quickly as the drug is coming in.  I sit up with my tongue wagging happily out of my mouth, “Why, or why, do we always hurt the ones we love, truly”, I say, overcome by a strange warmth I’d missed so.  “Oh, Mahaca Hussein, you cute little nurse, I loves you.”

Mahaca pauses in fear.  Finally she decides to protest.  “No no, no.  Mr. Manley I am asking you to sit down.  No, Mr. Manley you must get back in bed.  Yes, yes.  Back in bed.”

Oh, she’s tricky.  She dodges left, then right.  That’s okay, I’ve got poppy joy for another few moments today.  “Damn it, with your no, no, no.  My heart cries yes, yes, yes!  Come here and let me hug all 4’ 2” on your squat little happy haji frame!”

“Back in bed, back in bed, Mr. Manley.”  Finally getting a break between me and the door, Mahaca makes for the exit and freedom.  I finally give a final shout, loud enough to be heard by the wing. “Nursre Mahaca will break your heart!”

Ladies who Lactate are Lovely Ladies Indeed!

I now understand the fun of lactation.  Oh, that special ability to feed life with the essence of self distilled and collected and finally bestowed by Demeter or St. Giles depending on your set of gods and goddesses.  I am not afraid to say, I am a man.  I have lactated.
It all began with a simple surgical procedure to do a lung biopsy.  I'd been hospitalized by different medical facilities on the rate of about one a year.  It was a matter of trying to diffuse this pattern of behavior.  I mean, New Year's Eve in a hospital with a tube in your pee pee so you don't have to bother the nice orderly to make the trip on your own.  If you're lucky, you sneaked in a 20 bag so you can at least mess with the minds of the cardiac monitors!  Oh, now THAT'S fun!

This year, I was determined to find out what went wrong with my lungs every year and to do that, it required a biopsy of the surgical type.  They explained it to me.  Four small incisions under my left arm.  So tiny as to be nearly impossible to feel.  Why, la-de-la might be out the same day!

The surgeon should be executed and the doctor should be shot.  The first didn't put in the tiny slits he described. No, instead there were tunnels and a fourth excavation cave.  I  think they had a hoover hooked up to me at some point.  And, a blender, a slicer, a dicer and perhaps even a Lean Mean Suckitout Machine! by George Foreman.

The next day, the miracle bestowed itself upon me.  Like I said, I do not know if it was Demeter or St. Giles, but whichever of the gender benders waved her wand and I brought forth milk.  And, not just a little milk.  I gave like a spigot.  A milked out like an old jersey cow forgotten in the fields while the Duleys were at the reunion dontcha know.  I called the nurse.  I lifted up the lactating titty and said "Help!"  She fixed her deep brown eyes and old scaggled face bearing the mark of the faithful in center forehead, took a deep breath, and said, "No, no, no, no.  No play with that!  Move your hand.  No touch."

I felt dirty.  As if I'd shown her a peep show rather than a valid nursing concern.  "Is this normal?"  She, "Is what normal, I am very busy, but patient comes first, no more pain medication, it will clear in five days.  Goodnight.  Lay back down.  No play with ... chest."  I was sure she was going to say "Thank You and Come Again ala Apu of the Simpsons."  But, she just exited the room her heart held up to the devoted God of the Dot at the idiocy of the white man in 517.

That was four days ago.  I'm still flowing but I've decided not to bottle it as the best cure for gout since 1901. But if you really hurry, you can get in on the milking action on your own.  Just bring a jar - a big jar.  Oh, and a lot of patience.  It happens in its own time.  Apparently I'm titty shy.

This blog brought to you by All Gays Go to Heaven by Reece Manley and published by Varsity Prints.  Pre-order at All Gays Go to Heaven (http://www.aggth.com).  Visit Today!

You Know You're an Old Queen When

You know you're an Old Queen when....
You regard enemas as being quite a thrill.
Your idea of hot sex is holding hands at the Denny's special.
Your partner gives you that special look and you turn around to see who he's looking at.
You bough SIRIUS just for the show tunes.
Your dog, like your partner, has no idea what "come" means.
Finding the right China pattern for Friday night bingo is your big event for the week.
You find the Bravo channel "just a little too racy."
You can name 50 white wine varietals but only one porn tape title.
That little something special simply means Ben-Gay.

Here's to us Old Queens everywhere!!