Nun Nurse Nelly's Vicious Backhand & Another Helicopter Ride

Another helicopter ride I wouldn't remember. Another ER Doc breaking the likely prognosis: veggie platter. A well deserved smack for the humiliating finale, via enraged nun nurse Nelly.

I didn’t begin the day expecting to be nearly decapitated by an angry Nun, nurse, named Nelly.  For that matter, nor did I intend to accidentally off myself.  As consciousness slowly returned, I was balls deep in my recurring nightmare.  Our, living nightmare.  Several shots of narcan, stomach pumped, blasted with a Big Gulp’s worth of charcoal liquid.  Modern medicine was slowly defeating the many substances I had ingested.  Another helicopter ride I wouldn’t remember.  Another ER Doc declaring: “If he does wake up, he’ll likely be a veggie platter.”  When I did come to, I attempted to bolt upright, for the purpose of escape.  The garden hose apparatus down my throat limited any attempt at movement or escape.  Bolted down.  No matter how hard I tried, once my gag reflex began objecting to the garden hose down my lungs, I was in a permanent state of gagging and retching.  

I made a move to yank it out myself.  No dice, both arms were restrained to either side of the hospital bed.  Either I had been a less than ideal patient, a very naughty boy, or the Roscoes (cops) had secured me, for what reason I couldn’t remember at all.  As my eyes struggle to focus, at my 2  o’ clock,  my gaze met Mari’s.  Not again.  Her swollen, red, tear-stained face of the betrayed.  It was heartbreaking.  Her grim expression didn’t change at all with my resurrection.  If anything, it became darker.  More hopeless.  As if somewhere, whether deep down or nearer the surface, she wondered if me passing on might produce the best outcome for all.  There was nobody she could even discuss her misery with.  Not a single soul.  

Closure for a seemingly endless path of misery, it was better had I slipped away.  I had been torturing Mari over and over again.  How many near death experiences does it take to finally get your s**t together.  What the f**k is wrong with me?  I was fully aware what a worthless, hopeless waste of skin, piece of s**t humanoid I was for putting her through it.  Those who are masters of compartmentalizing, burying all the pain and heartbreak of the past, always unravel eventually.  The better, and longer you run from the pain, the bigger the meltdown later.  “Marriage will change me.  The birth of the twins will change me.”  I don’t know if it was optimism or lies.  A move near the source of my pain lit the fuse.  A broken and discarded father/son relationship, reconnected.  I deluded myself that I had forgiven, forgotten.  

Deluded myself that my old man wouldn’t betray me all over again.  If I hadn’t been raised fully believing the “perfect eternal family” Mormon fairy tale, the big lie that was our family, and its collapse, wouldn’t have been so devastating.  There is something inexplicably brutal when it happens at that 12 and 13 year old stage of life.  It impacted me totally different than siblings older or younger.   

My gagging and carrying on made no impression on Mari.  The “call nurse” button was in reach and I began hammering it.  Nothing.  I kept at it.  The pitter patter of feet announced the arrival of the severely annoyed Nun Nurse Nelly.  Nelly also displayed no glad tidings upon finding me awake.  She had seen the toxicology results by then.  A later count would confirm, I had consumed, a handful at a time, 120 Soma in the previous 40 hours.  One bottle of wine, and in the previous 12 hours, my normally prescribed 700 mg daily of Morphine.  Many states have passed laws limiting Morphine dose of 120mg.  Even for cancer patients.  With major hoops if Doc’s and clinicians need to prescribe more.  My chronic pain was’t terminal, nor was it an excuse at all for our recurring nightmare.  It was all on me.  It wasn’t the Morphine being used and abused.  I took it as prescribed.  It was the secondary, “less dangerous” stuff.  

Soma was a worst case scenario for me.  I loved the way it made me feel,  and like benzos, it erased my memory and converted me to full idiot.  Slurry, staggering, not able to recognize, if you can’t walk or talk, maybe driving is a car isn’t advisable.  Since age 18, if I was even borderline, I wouldn’t drive a car.  No matter how inconvenient.  Pills, booze, even hallucinogens, I never felt it worth killing some family out in their minivan.   

I didn’t remember the helicopter ride to visit Nurse Nelly.  Nor being thought dead when paramedics arrived.  5 minutes later, would have been a very different outcome.  The events leading up to, and including the helicopter ride are another story entirely, and worth reading.  

It was apparent, Nun Nurse Nelly “NNN” wasn’t a fan of the substance abuser.  She couldn’t disguise her contempt whenever dealing with me.   I wasn’t just seeking oblivion, I was damn good at finding it.  From an early age, I wanted to throw my arms around the world, and hump its leg, like a horny dog with a bellyful of Viagra.  I wanted to try it all.  One has to understand, from early in childhood, the 70’s and 80’s, it was hammered  into our brains just how inevitable nuclear armageddon was.  Not if, but when.  With a daredevil kid, wired the way I am, the message tends to backfire.  Not the intended reaction that parents, church, school, and government had in mind.  Instead of controlling me, “f**k it, I might as well go balls out and try everything before I’m transformed into a shadow burned into the sidewalk.”  

And so I did.  With the vigor and lunacy of a meth-addled hamster on a wheel, chasing that next dose mere inches from it’s mouth.  Off to the races.  The descent of my path was so gradual, it was imperceptible there was any slope at all.  Being aa high functioning addict provides an overconfidence.  An arrogance that becomes the substance abusers biggest enemy.  College full-time with great grades, while working full-time.  Graduating.  Never borrowing a penny, paying my own way.  I had convinced myself that my love affair with substances had, nor would ever, display any ill effects.  Rehab was for quitters.  My Mama didn’t raise  no quitter.  

Escaping close calls with cops and anyone else, over and over.  Only Soma related DUI’s that came later, which I also had drastically reduced until the consequences were negligible.  While representing myself.    Being a well dressed, white, seemingly successful white man imitating a Molly Mormon was an eye opening experience while navigating the court system.  I witnessed black and brown people dressed in shorts and tank tops ruthlessly hammered with jail time for first time, minor crimes.  It was shockingly clear how there were two sets of rules, well, at least two sets.  And the extent of how f*****g negotiable was my consequences were.  It only added to my “invincible” delusion I operated under for decades.  However, when it all catches up, fuhgeddabout it.  A bill long overdue.  Physically, spiritually, legally, personally, career, every facet of life on this planet.  Utter collapse.  

Now I had to convince NNN to unchain me.  Her response meant it wasn’t the Roscoes chaining me down, that was a relief.  I  could barely look at Mari.  The last person on Earth who deserves what I’ve put her through.  No question, her and the kids would be better off with me six feet under the grass.  

“You’ll be a good boy?  You promise?”  I vigorously nodded my head, smiling, reassuring via body language and grunts.  She unchained my hands, but that wasn’t really the problem.  She eyed me long, waiting for any outbursts or sudden movements, aggressive actions.  Satisfied, she left the room.  My throat was rubbed completely raw.  The choking and retching began all over again.  I didn’t think it was harmful, it  just pissed me off.  Also, they had scrubbed all the Morphine off my brain receptors, triggering insta-withdrawal.  In the movies, if anything, they under dramatize the process known as opioid withdrawal.  Sometimes they get it right, but nothing can recreate minutes feeling like hours.  Days feeling like months.  The feeling of your skeleton trying rip through it’s flesh covering into open air.  It’s a combination of acute physical pain with emotional and mental anxiety that begs for death.  7 levels of hell becomes 77 levels.   

I was always  a polite patient, even in these ugly circumstances.  That is, unless withdrawal man was driving the ship.   Then, all bets are off.  I hit the button, calling NNN back. The hissing of the respirator rising and falling was pissing  me off more by the second.  I no longer needed it, the noise only reminded me of the garden hose crammed down my talk-hole.  

As NNN reentered the room, I signaled with my hands she needed to remove the hose.  Her dismissive response irked me.  “No, maybe another hour or so.  Stop calling me, I mean it,”   I began gagging and retching, and she responded with a  “so what” smirk.  As if I was faking, to get what I want.  She  could see I was sufficiently coherent and physiologically able to breathe on my own.  Getting her attention with a muffled yell as she was leaving, she turned around.  I grabbed the hose with both hands and gave it a yank.  Nun Nurse Nelly shrieked:  “Nooo, YOU STOP THAT MISTER!”  Signaling I wanted to write words, she dismissed my request.  Mari handed me pen and paper.  “If you don’t remove the hose, I’ll do it.  I’m gonna puke and aspirate.  You decide which!!!”  A long, cold angry stare from NNN, and she went to the  phone.  Within 2 minutes, a couple M.D. residents came in and removed the intubation hose.  My throat was so raw, any  attempt to speak was inaudible at first.  They ignored me anyway and left the room.  The uncomfortable silence between Mari and I remained. 

My go-to excuse, I wrote I had a big meeting with a client and “check please, I’m leaving, or I’ll lose a big deal.”  It was a Hail Mary, pun intended, but I began lobbying for a shot of Morphine.  Mari confirmed my prescribed dosage by presenting the Doc’s with my Morphine bottles she brought in her purse.  For some reason, Mari refused to give me any.  My  suffering was the only source of comfort for Mari at this point.  Not borne of maliciousness, but of wanting me to feel the full consequences of my actions.  Dragging their feet re; releasing me, they relented.  Giving me the good s**t, an IV  injection of Hydromorphone.  Much appreciated, it relieved the anxiety and pain of the early stages of withdrawal.  They ignored my argument for my need to leave.  I decided to take action on my own.  Hoarsely, “Mari, don’t watch, I’m pulling all this stuff out.”   She began pleading, then stopped, she had seen this movie before.  She knew there was no stopping me.  Right arm, then left hand, I began yanking I.V.’s. Blood spurted over my chest and face.  She looked away.  “I’m getting the f**k-salad-sandwich outta here,” I grumbled.  With the coast clear, I made a lunge for the edge of the bed.  

Feeling a sharp pain in the last area a dude wants a stabbing pain.  Thinking the blankets were  pulled too taut, I tried again.  I got a bit more vigoro in my movement.  Rocking from side to side, to get enough momentum to propel me.  I lunged once again.  “Fuuuuuck,” I shouted.  An icepick jammed in your dill hole, it was 10 on a 10 scale of pain.  Still being at 50% mental acuity, I assumed there was still an I.V. or tether I hadn’t accounted for.  Just not in the location it actually was. Another  lunge,  another stabbing pain below the belt line. My dill hole was on fire.  

“What the f**k?” I screamed.  Not realizing it was at 120 decibels, and the response was now headed my way.  The pitter patter of NNN, and she was beyond pissed off as she rounded the corner and entered my room.  Seeing the remnants of blood spurt  all over, it went from bad to worse.  Confused, I glanced over at Mari.  She was wearing what can only be described as a “big s**t-eatin’ grin.”  When our eyes met, she tried to suppress it, but was unsuccessful.  “What,” I  said, as she looked away.  Nelly was frozen in place, giving me the evil eye and shaking her head in disgust.  I  kept rocking back and forth, obsessed with breaking free of whatever tethered me to that bloodstained bed.  The final lunge resulted in a 12 on a 10 scale, sharp dick pain.  “What the f**k?”  I roared, ignoring Nelly’s presence.  Nelly was  suddenly standing to the left of the bed.  Hand cocked back with open hand, ready to T off on my beautiful face.  Mari, she couldn’t begin to contain the laughter.  Pain and suffering, mine, was the  only thing to ease  her frustration.  Consequences.  She wanted me to feel every ounce of consequences my behavior had wrought. 

Nelly fled the room, as if going for reinforcements.  Mari finally spoke.  “You’ve got a catheter in your thingy, you Baka (Japanese for idiot).  Eww, I hope it hurts like hell.  I hope it rips it right off.  With those “stuck on stupid” pills, you pissed all over the place, over and over again.  You’re dumber than a sack of dumb on those pills.  You lost your wallet too.  So get ready for some serious I.D. theft.” 

Nun Nurse Nelly was back.  Fury in her eyes.  She had holstered her weapon, but, obviously still wanted to knock me into next week.  “What in the name of all that is holy are you thinking?  We are a Catholic institution!  I’m a nun.  Would you speak such evil in a Church?”  

“Well, that depends.  Catholic, or Mormon?  Or other?”  My attempt at humor went over like a t**d in the punchbowl.  NNN wasn’t finished.  

“Do you kiss your Mother with that mouth?  You are a very rude young man.  NO respect.  You absolutely do not deserve a good woman like this,” nodding toward Mari.  She was spot-on there.  I always took pride in  being a polite patient.  I worked in a  hospital for a few years.  Have had a dozen surgeries. 5 knee, appendix, tonsils, and many oral surgeries.  Nelly really put me in my place.  She was correct.  For all the good it would do.  I felt terrible.  Embarrassed.  However, my continued lunges felt like a garden hose was now being yanked through a hole not designed for such hoses.  The most sensitive bits and parts,  a hole that should contain a “no entry” sign posted.  I would never whisper “f**k” to a nurse.  Especially not at a volume that echoed for blocks.  I pleaded with Nelly to remove my dill hole hose.  

I was wearing her down with my persistence.  “Okay.  If you absolutely promise, you won’t scream or curse.  And, only if the Doctor approves it.  Promise, you won’t utter a peep?  Certainly not such irreverent vulgarities like you have been.  Even staff has been complaining!  You swear on the bible?  On all that you love?”

“I swear.  Promise.  I’m so sorry for before.  I’ve never felt pain like that, in that location.  I didn’t mean to disrespect you, offend you, or this place.  Ma’am, I mean, your Highness, erm, sister?  Mother, Mother.  I promise Mother.”  I never resolved how I was supposed to address NNN.  

My relief was replaced with nerves.  Anxiety.  Whether I could honor my promise or not.  Nelly was ready, right now.  She pulled down the blankets. 

“Okay young man, pull up your gown.”  

“That’s what all the ladies say.”  No idea why I said something so stupid. The opposite of wit, for the absolute wrong audience.  The stupidity Soma brings was still running the show.  Nelly blasted me with stink-eye, utter contempt.  She wanted me gone as much as I did.  I don’t know why I hurried, the soul crushing “discussion” that awaited me at home was always the lowest point humanly possible.  Simply because  of the brutal spotlight on the profound depth of Mari’s misery.  Hopelessness, sadness, depression.  Not believing I would ever overcome,  it had gone on too long.  Sometimes with years in between incidents.  Far more devastating than if there had been no interval between incidents.  Hope crushed is far worse than no hope at all.  When it was revealed that even precious newborn twins couldn’t end the nightmare, that was an all-time low.  

“Okay son, wait, this will probably hurt considerably worse than last time.”  

My eyes met Mari’s.  She gave me a grin.  Part contempt, part “you are so fucked.”  As if she knew the outcome was inevitable.  She had witnessed the drama whenever she had accidentally bumped me in the yam bag.  “Oh c’mon, I barely touched you, such a drama queen.  It’s impossible that any body part is THAT sensitive.  You act like I cut it off, then used  the sack for a speed bag like a boxer.  Such a p***y.”    She never understood the extent of pain when direct shot to the balzak is delivered.  

“Okay, umm, Ma’am, I mean Sister, Mother?”  

“Just call me Nelly.” 

“Okay, yeah, I’ll be good.  

“Okay son, here we go.  It’ll probably just be some pressure, and a sharp pinch of pain.”  It’s always bullshit when they say “pressure and a slight pinch.”  Nelly put her foot up on the side of the bed.  For maximum torque and leverage.  “Oh s**t,” I mumbled.  “What?”  “Nothing, its’s just that, your leg.”  She ignored me.  Nelly grabbed the hose with both hands.  White knuckled, she yanked, stumbling backwards.  It happened so fast.  One quick, violent yank.  It did not go as planned.  Or promised.  

“Motherrrr Fuuuuuuck!” 

Oh no.  I couldn’t believe it.  Not just an F bomb, an MF bomb. Maybe I am a p***y.  The loudest thus far.  Worst case scenario.  In one lightning fluid motion, NNN closed the distance, unholstered her weapon, cocked back, and with dazzling speed and velocity, swung for the fences.  

I never saw it coming.  “Shwaaaap.”  Right in the face.  It rocked me.  Shocked me.  A white flash of light, then stars.  I’ve had all sorts of concussions, but I never saw stars like this.  I fell back on my pillow, not sure what just happened.  Until I saw NNN reload, c**k back, and behind her reddened, angry expression, looked ready and willing for round 2.  Not satisfied with her Grand Slam.  She quickly restrained herself, and once again, holstered her weapon.  It felt like she had a lead weight or brass knuckles or something.  

My eyes darted towards Mari.  Seeking confirmation, as in, “did that just happen?”  Again, empathy or understanding wasn’t on the menu.  Seeking moral support, hell, even protection.  Something.  Nada.  She was covering her mouth, trying to stifle the laughter, then decided, why bother.  

She let out a cackle of satisfaction from the depths of her soul.  Pure satisfaction.  For a fleeting moment, joy.  I’m repetitive on the issue, but you have to understand.  The number of times she witnessed the train wreck happening.  The aftermath, rinsed and repeating. The Doctors telling her veggie platter was the best outcome to be hoped for.  No matter how many tears and promises, apologies and reassurances.  And could do nothing.  Seeing me suffering a few small consequences was all she had to buffer her hurt and anger.  

“Very rude, crude young man.  Lies.  You lied to me!  No respect.  God is watching.”   Even I began laughing at the bizarro absurdity of the scene.  F**k up upon f**k up.  Nothing makes me happier than seeing Mari smile and laugh.  It was pointless beyond the first apology to NNN.  I tried.  Sincerely.  

I had a handprint on my left cheek for 3 whole days.  The laughter wouldn’t  last. 

The weeks and months that followed were some of the darkest our household would ever know.  If not for the twins as distraction, Mari surely would have ejected me once and for all.  I finally removed it from my hands.  I wrote a long letter to my Doctor.  Nowhere near close to the full details.  Yet, I made clear the danger of Soma’s effect on me.  How I forgetfully took more and more.  Even tried to drive after completely fall down s**t-faced.  By making it a liability thing for the Doc, my Soma supply was finally cut off.  At my next appointment, I verbally reinforced the matter and made sure he understood the urgency.  I could’ve gone to another Doctor,  but I knew I was a dead man if I did.  If the Soma Monster made another appearance, my life, nor my marriage would survive it.  It took nearly a decade to earn her trust back.  Her belief that Soma was finally gone from our lives.  Thanks for reading, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic.  Until next time…