No further slice of me

Enduring an inguinal hernia repair can
drive you to despair, it is a monumental
nonsense; in my defence I hadn’t lived
through one before, couldn’t be sure
what it meant, should have feared
not knowing. I believed I was going
through a trifling program for relief
and remediation. It was some consolation
knowing discomfort so well, enduring it too long
to tell wry tales or seek gratuitous compassion.
My understandings, it seems, were fashioned from
vague physiological facts gleaned in discussion
with legendary liars during backyard consultations;
then armed with euphemisms from the hospital disciples
whose positions defeated me, wallowing in effete
intangibles I could not follow, subject to repeat
briefings ad infinitum, lame investigations,
hearing accusations I was alcohol dependent with
blood pressure too high for proper safety,
all this from one Oracle of Doom masquerading
as an anaesthetist, ignored the acerbic bitch, insulting
her in kind on finding she could not impede
the procedure and finding somewhere I must have missed
a fact, could not recall anyone in the rash of eager
counsellors who had claimed to wield the knife or said
they’d make the slice and sew me up again.
With odd relief I met the man, masked and gowned,
seconds before I fell asleep and he began his task.
I woke in cheerful recovery with the other three who
had the same procedure and was briefed about
impeding dangers that I’d still endure, unclear of which
was more significant or weighed the most for future
years, couldn’t see the dismal way of thinking in
the scheme. One wouldn’t dream whilst lying
there of playing games with one’s repair, all one wants
is out of there. Since that time perhaps I have exceeded
norms related to the safe and recommended practices
barely even heard – like farted too excitedly, squeezed
too hard to pass a stubborn turd, lifted drums or heavy
sacks or laden bins and such obtuse, assorted crap
beyond the call of commonsense because that’s what
I do, and true to their predictions I have pain again,
not as bad for sure, but pain I can endure that is quite
fitting to the way I live. But let me tell you openly,
they’ll get no further slice of me.
© I.D. Carswell