Under the Influence

 

Hayter for March 30, 2025

“Under the Influence”

            I have never missed a deadline. A couple of decades back I wrote an article about cats that didn’t get printed, but I made my deadline. I learned the hard way that cats have a large following. Perfectly understandable. -- I included that in my follow-up article.

            If this week’s article doesn’t make it to print, the reason will be that I wasn’t in my right mind because last week I had an operation that required a lot of pills. There were a bunch of different ones, but the two that had the worst aftereffects were the anesthesia and Smooth Move. The anesthesia was much needed. The laxatives? I have no idea.

I mentioned to some of you last week that I was to have my hip replaced. Today I shall take you on a journey into my pre and post-hipbone removal process. The journey will be like a walk in the park--a park known as Jurassic.

I had many people tell me that knee replacement is much worse than hip replacement. That means I may likely die from my refusal to have a knee worked on.

 My hip procedure was performed at Tomball Regional HCA. It’s a hospital with the greatest staff and nurses ever to have the misfortune of removing my hipbone. Kay and I arrived at the hospital at 5:30 A.M. They started cutting on me an hour and a half later. It took two hours for them to yank the hipbone out and replace it with a doorknob.  

I only got to see drawings of a hip bone, but I did see what was used to replace it. You would not believe it! It’s called a hip bone, but it looks like a doorknob. It comes in all sizes. The door knob doesn’t even know what it’s doing. It’s got no nerve endings. It’s just metal. Metal can melt, but it never feels the heat. A hip bone may not feel much, but it sends hipbone pain issues straight to your brain. I assume that now that the procedure is behind me, I’ll never have any more trouble with my right hip.  

During the insertion of the doorknob, I felt no pain. The anesthesia stuff knocked me out, which was a good thing. The fact that the drug makes me forget stuff and talk weird, is just one of the aftereffects that may never leave me. They didn’t even show me a video of the procedure.

            When you are in the hospital overnight, they can do some eerie fascinating stuff to you, and you won’t even know what it was. “Mr. Hayter, I’m going to give you a shot of Cemapromacapliberry that might make you feel better. In fact, I think I’ll save a little of it for myself. -- The nurses quickly caught onto my sense of humor and used it to calm me down.  

I went to Tomball because that’s where Dr. Blackwell does his surgeries. I had never seen or heard of Dr. Blackwell, but my family doctor Lance Pickard recommended him. I trust Dr. Pickard with my life. He could recommend me to see Dr. Bella Lugosi, and I’d make an appointment. (That was me being crazy.)

 Kay will edit out most of my beyond-weird stuff. She’s ever vigilant. (She’ll likely edit that out.) Dr. Blackwell is down to earth. After imaging my hip he said, in so many words, I could give you a shot and pills for your pain right now, and you could limp around with the pain for as long as you can bear it.

Another option would be to get your hip replaced in a couple of weeks so that two or three months later you’ll lose your limp and pain. “What? Two months!” – “Yes, sir. Or, three.” He apparently didn’t want to tell me that it is largely because I’m old.

And that thought makes me feel like a wimp for crying over my pain issues. Before my operation, I was upset because I was told I would never get to play racquetball again. My desire to play racquetball is in no way worth suffering the pain I’ve been going through over the past few days. And I’ll be exercising for the next three months.

The only thing that has gotten me this far is Kay. That girl took notes on everything the doctor and nurses said. My memory span is two sentences, tops. After about 30 minutes the nurses knew to communicate only with Kay, on most instructions.

At the moment I’m blaming it all on the drugs. What is bothering me the most right now is my avid regularity. When it takes you a couple of minutes to drag your rear to the restroom, and 30 seconds to position yourself in the proper place, you’re brain can’t tell your colon what it’s supposed to do. Speaking of which, I’m going to end this thing right now. – “Kay, I need some help, darling!”

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

           

Audio-book?

 

Hayter for March 23, 2025

“Turning Little,Dizzy into an audio-book?”

            I’ve come up with an idea as to how to spend my downtime. If you missed last week’s article, it was about Brad Meyer ruining my hip so that I have to get a replacement. It will be about two months before my leg will heal enough for me to dance. It will take at least eight months after that for me to learn to dance.

            During my healing process, I am hoping to turn my recent novel into an audio-book. I’m currently reading aloud to myself, because it’s easier for me to catch my mistakes while I’m actually saying the words. I don’t know why that is, but it works.  Plus by reading it aloud to myself it prepares for the time when I record it.

            By turning my novel into an audio-book, I actually wouldn’t even need anyone to edit the thing, because it will be me talking. And, let’s face it, I’m not dumb enough to ruin my novel by reading all of my misspellings and messed up sentences.  

            Yesterday, I got on YouTube and listened for 45 minutes to a guy explaining how to  personally turn your written novel into an audio-book. The young man tried to be as helpful as possible, but he had no idea who was listening to him. I couldn't understand  half of what he said. There are a lot of weird words used in the field of audio recording.

             What I did catch onto was the fact that while recording you’ve got to put padding all around your room or closet so you won’t pick up any background noise from inside and outside the house. Stuff like Kay asking me I stole her sunshades, or the neihborhood kids playing or their dad mowing the lawn. That’s not a problem if your book is about person sitting at the table while is wife is discussing stuff and his kids are outside playing.

            While reading aloud parts of the novel, I messed up on some of the wording. And I coughed, sneezed, and my chair made a lot of groaning noises. I’ve never had a desk chair that didn’t groan. Even if  I were to tape the thing while standing in my closet, I would still have enough gaps and guffs to make editing a beast.

            The only way I could have an audio-book correctly made is to hire someone to do it. If someone hired me to do the same thing for them, I’d have to charge thousands of bucks. It would take me at least six months to edit the recording.

            Since I don’t have the brains to handle such a job, I thought I might ask Bradly to help me. Years back, he and I video-taped our restaurant reviews. Some we filmed in an office at the Courier, and other times outside of the restaurant. We used Brad’s camera for filming and his computer for the editing. While Brad trashed me a lot in our reviews, I still thought the project was well done.

            A few years back, Kay videoed me delivering some devotionals in different places in and outside of our house. And, get this! I was actually able to edit them myself, and put them on Facebook or YouTube. I can’t remember.

            If push comes to shove, as it often does, Kay could tape me reading a chapter, after which I’d edit it. Maybe put it on YouTube a chapter at a time. The big drawback to that is I wouldn’t make a dime from the reading. What author would do such a thing for free?

Actually, a lot of writers would, including myself. The choices are to spend a lot of years trying to get your work published or publishing it yourself and try to get people to by standing on the street corner. Me? I hate selling anything. My opening is “You wouldn’t want to buy this would you?”  

            Unless my hip replacement surgery in some way damages my brain, I shall spend my recovery time trying to record the thing. I’m almost through with another book. All I need is an ending and a title. The novel I just finished is called “Little, Dizzy”. That’s the name of the only town in the state with a comma in it.  The reasoning is explained in one of the early chapters.

            Perhaps you’ll get a chance to hear and/or see the recording. Unless you don’t want to which is understandable. (That’s me trying to sell something.) Speaking of which, what really bothers me is the fact that I may have to ask Brad Meyer for help. That’s not going to go over well unless I mention how he ruined my hip. He’s yet to accept blame for that. That’s my friend for you. He can be a hard nut to crack. – Oh, and I didn’t mean that as a metaphor.     

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

Brad and Racquetball

 

Hayter for March 16, 2025

How Brad and Racquet Ball Messed Me Up

            When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one person to dissolve the bands of racquetball that have helped maintain a friendship between Brad Meyer and myself… yadda, yadda. I used the beginning of the Declaration of Independence to add seriousness to my situation.

               I haven’t even shared the news with Brad, yet. He seldom reads my articles, so I may just give him some stupid excuses for not meeting him at the gym. Oh, and get this! I’m paid up for two months with the Rec Center. The people in charge over there are as friendly as can be, but I doubt the County will reimburse a person due to his inability to use the facility for the duration of his pass. I may have to ask Kay to look into that for me.

            I’ve got to tell you—that girl was terrific today! Well, actually most days, but this day in particular. You see, I had to go to the hospital to take four hours' worth of notes on what I need to do in preparation for my hip replacement. – Beg pardon? Really? I thought I already mentioned my hip problem. Okay, I’m having my replaced in a week or two. I’ve no idea who donated their thigh to me. 

            The “donner” part was just me playing dumb. I’ve gotten good at that? In truth, there aren’t many bones you can donate. A knee, toe, finger, and skull are a few of the others. -- Try to tell that to Victor Frankenstein. 

            But forget other people. My hip started bothering me a few months back. Being the athlete that I am, I refused to make a big deal out of it. I just limped around the racquetball court while trying to get to the ball. At no time did Brad recognize my limp. He just grinned at me, each time that he won a point.

            I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m a man of constant sorrows. I’m nothing like the Soggy Bottom Boys in “O’ Brother Where Art Thou?” Those guys had it bad. Of course, we’ve all got sorrows. Right now, it’s taking all I’ve got to not blame Brad for my hip surgery.

The only thing that could’ve ruined my hip was the number I times I hit the floor or the wall while playing racquetball. At one time, I managed to get to the side wall, so Bradfordson wouldn’t run over. Well, for whatever reason, ran right into me, knocking me against the wall.  The collision resulted in him falling to the floor and bumping his head. then fell on the floor and bumped his head. And get this—he blamed me for it!

I’ve never claimed to be good at physics, but I do know enough to realize that when someone runs smack dab into you while your back is turned and you’re standing perfectly still, the resulting collision was not your fault.

When I managed to gather my wits, which were scattered all over the wall, I walked over to Brad to check on him. The big gallute just waved me off. -- “Don’t touch me.” I think that’s what he said. To tell you the truth, I was the only one who still had his wits about him. It didn’t matter, the Brad Man was ticked.

When he finally managed to stand, he said, “Why’d you knock me down?” All I needed to say was, “I’m sorry.” But, I felt the need to tell him the truth. He did not agree one bit with my truth. He still doesn’t, but we eventually both let it go. I only brought it up now because it was one of the many times that my body hit the wall or the floor. In other words, it’s one of many reasons that I need a hip replacement.

By the way, I don’t understand why the word “replacement” is used. The only thing replaced is the socket that’s planted in my right hip. I’ve got another socket in my left hip, but Brad hasn’t managed to mess it up yet. Fortunately, my right hip will never do that again. While I’ve run into the wall and fell on the floor multiple times in the gym, not one particular episode ruined my thigh joint. The thing eventually just got tired of hitting the wall and the floor. 

Since I haven’t suffered from any floor or wall episodes in my house or anywhere else, I have to assume that playing racquetball did me in. The only person I can blame for it is my friend Brad. Surely, he can understand that. And, yes, he hates it when I call him Shirley.

Kay went with me to the hospital today for my pre-replacement lecture. The kind therapist explained everything to me, using way too many details. I may not have mentioned it before, but my mind tends to wander when people try to explain something to in more than three sentences. Kay, oddly enough, knew that, so she took notes for me.

The therapist lady’s plan was to act as if my active life was over. She said my hip could possibly be healed in two months after the operation. When I heard that, I asked, “Will I still be able to play racquetball after that?”

She said “NO!” to racquetball, pickleball, wrestling, or playing jacks. I think she was joking about the jacks. When I pushed her barring racquetball from my activities, she said (I’m paraphrasing here.), “Look, you’re an old man. Your running days are over. Now you’re a walker. While you’ll need to be doing some slow exercises for the rest of your short life, you cannot run or move quickly in any direction. Other than that, you’ll do great.”

The scary part about all of this is the fact that Kay is acting as if she is now in charge of me. I don’t know what she’d do if I tried to play racquetball. Of course, there may come a time when she says, “Okay! Get your rear outta here and play racquetball. You and Brad practice jujitsu if you want! Me? I’m going to buy a dog, because you certainly won’t be much company.”

She didn’t say that, but I can read her pretty well.

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com