It didn’t take long before my chest had healed enough for it to be unbandaged, I got the real shock of getting to see and be able to assess the stark changes that would now be a permanent fixture of my bodily landscape. Not only was the old, faded scar beneath my left breast now accompanied by a long, puckering, scabbed over wound with prickly translucent sutures running up and down the full length of my sternum, but I also had a series of four long rubber hoses jammed two by two into either of my sides to drain the fluid that had been accumulated in my lungs while I began to recover. Those creeped me out far more than the fact that some guy had cleaved open my chest and proceeded to root around with my organs while I slept it off. As cool as a kid might think looking like Doctor Octopus would be for a little while, it’s a whole ‘nother bit of unpleasantness to feel bits of sharp, hard plastic shifting around just beneath your skin whenever you try and move or turn around even slightly.
You get to have that much constant discomfort as a consistent part of your daily routine, and you learn to adapt yourself. Making mental note of how which degrees of movement would cause the tubes to shift or grind against my innards, and doing my damnedest to avoid them, which was easier said than done. The level of mobility that lent me was exactly the level of mobility of spending most parts of my day playing Nintendo with my feet and urinating into a medical-grade jug. I guess that’s a fine lifestyle, if you’re into living like a semi-functional beached whale. Eight year old boys however, are a peculiar breed who are typically hyped up on sugar and a special form of cooties. Even in my weakened state, I wasn’t having with any of that noise.
One day, I made the cocky mistake of rejoicing aloud in triumph to my mom and a nurse at my unexpected emancipation when one of the tubes fell out of my side and hit the floor with a wet thump. Unfortunately, this sense of newly liberated freedom was short-lived as the nurse walked over, knelt down and grabbed the tube and took it away for a moment before coming back with a new, sterile one. She muttered an apology to me and told me to try and stay calm as she inserted the new tube where the old one had been. Not much warning, no anesthetic, I just felt a quick, hard push accompanied by a lot of screaming on my part. My young mind may have exaggerated the pain of it, but the way I’ve recalled it ever since, I can’t think of any physical pain I’ve encountered in my life that was worse or more disturbing than being awake for my “stabbing”.
From there, the road to recovery was slow. I spent over a week in a hospital bed at Mayo with my Mom and Grandmother staying in the room with me for as long as the doctors would allow visitors and periodic calls from my Dad back home while he worked to keep the bills paid. The time I spent at Mayo after the surgery was finished and I woke up added up to about a week, but I remember the time passing as if it were a month. Fortunately, I had a huge stack of comics, video games, and cartoons to help pass the time.
Then came the nightly blood tests. Nurses, entering the room quietly at night with needles and prickers and menacing, snarling nurse fangs, drooling for their nightly fix on my sweet, sweet O negative. These nightly acts of aggression were neither appreciated nor enjoyed. The repeated assaults built a level of aggression into me that would fill more and more with each encounter. Incensed with rage, I became a scourge to every nurse in the place. I didn’t trust them and I made it a happen to tell every single one of them as much when they walked through the door. Turning towards the inner darkness that kept me immobile in my bed and frustrated in the world around me as these four tubes in my chest held me into place, looking like some eight-armed octopi, I resigned to my fate.
I would become the Squid!
The toys I had accumulated from friends, family, and mystery donors had become the weapons in Squid Boy’s arsenal for this great battle. Come at a guy twice daily to prod him with needles, and I don’t care how good your intentions are, there will be hard feelings. Having had enough, I made my intentions known to this poor woman, with as much venom as a seven year old boy could muster.
“Come any closer with that needle, and I will shoot you in the head.”
Fortunately, the only shooting taking place would be from the barrel of a spring-loaded accessory that came with a Batman action figure (Circa the first Michael Keaton flick) that would launch little plastic projectiles as far as maybe three or four feet with the ballistic power of a beetle crashing repeatedly into the face of a lit lightbulb. The nurse, feeling sorry for me, played along in the interest of humoring me and getting her job done, allowed me to “shoot her in the head” while acting like it really hurt before I let her go at me with the needle again. It wasn’t the last of the blood tests in my time at Mayo or beyond, but the nurse’s willingness to play along with exorcising my frustration was enough to get me over a certain degree of the frustration that had been plaguing me. After that point, I swore I’d never get touched by another needle as long as I lived. Despite this, my do-gooder nature coupled with my universal donor blood type make me a frequent target of the Red Cross’ Vampire Call List and I got my first tattoo on my 30th birthday with intentions on probably getting a couple more before too long. (Again, sorry Mom…)
So much for that, Squid-Boy.