I’m home after nearly a week in the hospital. I’m not out of the woods yet but I feel well enough to sit up for part, but not all, of the day.

I had some nasty internal bleeding that has ended. We’re monitoring it because the docs still aren’t sure of the original location. It happens with GI shit. In fact, I’m tired of talking about shit instead of talking shit. Fuck that shit.

The post title refers to how many times I had blood drawn when hospitalized, 2 or 3 times daily. Not all stickers are created equal. Some struggle to find a vein, others struggle to painlessly extract blood. Then there are those who do both well. I was lucky enough to have my share of those, so my veins are bruised but not battered:

I’ve had some unwanted firsts of late:

My first ambulance ride, which was almost as scary as the collapse and head whacking that precipitated it. My EMT, however, was magnificent and made me feel better as we careened to the hospital early Mardi Gras morning.

My first ER visit, which was made better by a wonderful nurse who kept me talking and laughing. He’s a fellow music geek, so we talked jazz, soul, and funk. I name dropped the Nevilles, he name dropped the Batistes. It made the long hours go by as I contemplated:

My first hospitalization as an adult. I was a sickly child but my grown up experiences have involved sitting with sick family members. That’s the root of my aversion to the medical system.

My first colonoscopy. I’ve been dodging that bullet for years but had to have one because of the nature of my malady. The prep is a near death experience for everyone but especially bad for me because of my blood loss. I passed the normal tests with flying colors, which was a relief after seeing red all night.

My first blood transfusion. I got two bags of blood before the scopes and one the next day. I lost half my blood at the peak of my illness.

My first encounter with the camera pill, which filmed my innards to give the docs another take on my illness. It reminded me of the Nanites on MST 3K:

It wasn’t all blood and shit. I got along well with my doctors, some of whom were Dr. A’s former med school students. That gave us an advantage in dealing with them: I was always seen as a human being, not just as a sick guy.

Through it all, I never lost my sense of humor. I knew it would help my cause if the doctors thought of me as the funny patient, so I went Shecky on their asses at least twice.

The first time happened when my attending arrived followed by a trail of baby doctors. I looked at them and said: “It’s like a scene from Scrubs, only the funniest guy in the room is a patient, not a doctor.”

The second comedic set piece involved my attending physician. He’s  the first cousin of local teevee journalists, Fletcher and Travers Mackel; twin brothers who work for WDSU news. How New Orleans is that?

I used to struggle to tell them apart, so I gave them nicknames. Here’s how I put it to my doctor: “Fletcher is Sports Mackel. Travers is News Mackel, and you sir, are Medical Mackel.”

I got big laughs on both occasions. When you’re a Shecky,  big laughs make the world go round or some such shit.

My nursing care was first rate, especially a young woman who was just 2 months out of nursing school. She was with me at my lowest and treated me like a beloved, albeit cranky, uncle. Thanks again. I hope to be the patient who inspires this young nurse to treat her profession as a calling, not just a paycheck. It’s what the best nurses do.

I have a long and slow recovery ahead of me. The bleeding could reoccur so I have to take it easy. I neither want to whack my head again, in the memorable phrase of one of my doctors, nor go to surgery. Oddly enough, the most cautious among my docs were the surgeons who want to give my body time to heal itself as long as the bleeding is over. 30 years ago, surgeons were cut happy and left their patients living on the:

This is likely the longest post I’ll write for a month or so. I hope it’s coherent and cogent, as I wrote it :

Again, I’d like to thank Dr. A, my doctors, nurses, friends, and First Draft colleagues for taking such good care of me in their own special ways. It’s not easy being a human pin cushion.

The last word goes to ZZ Top: