By STEPHANIE SHIBATA
ASK THE EXPERTS THE EXPERTS By GRID MICHAL GRINDING GRID’S GEARS
SMALL VICTORIES SOME DAYS YOU HAVE to make your own fun by deviating from
work. The last few months have been some of those days. This fun is about oatmeal. To begin with, I might eat one or two bowls of oatmeal a year. Mostly, I have raisin bran bought in hundred pound bags at Costco. At least they feel like a hundred pounds. But this is about oatmeal, not Costco. Right up until Thanksgiving I was functioning like any robust 75-year-old, even the day after when Hank and I were installing a lower unit in a big Honda. We finished and decided to stop at my house for a sandwich. While he made sandwiches I sought a seat in the living room, missing the seat by just enough to look dumb, and depositing myself on the carpet. Fortunately our small town has a volunteer rescue squad that likes to drive fast, within the legal limit, so it wasn’t long before we were scooting down Route 17 towards the small hospital where I came bustin’ through the emergency doors with a 105-degree temperature a pulse of 107,
and blood pressure 200/165. I was pumped full of steroids, which made matters worse for my old tummy. So for the next four weeks I existed on ice chips. Finally it was agreed—after shoving my entire body through a bunch of big round things, and examining beaucoup x-rays, that it might be a small bowel obstruction, that could be accessed with minimal invasion. One thing I know about the word invasive is it is negative, minimally or not, especially if I’m involved. So my daughter, the Richmond Registered Nurse, got me into a big hospital that certainly could get her dad well. Four days later after hours of interrogation and more blood removal, I was put on a liquid diet of jello…and ice chips. Two days later the oatmeal saga began. My lines are in regular type. Hapless hospital employees’ lines are italicized. Day one: soft diet, breakfast of scrambled eggs, and jello brought at 8:30 a.m. Hi! Thanks, but where’s my oatmeal? Did you order oatmeal? Mais oui, monsieur. Let me go ask the kitchen. He disappeared. The next day, here comes breakfast, no oatmeal. Hi! Did you bring my oatmeal? Didn’t they bring it? Nope, you said you’d get it. Lemme go ask what they did. He disappeared. The next day he’s a no-show. A doctor enters. How are you doing? I would be great if I had some oatmeal. All I get is eggs. The doc disappeared, returned in 5 minutes with a big bowl of oatmeal. He pulled the lid off the plate. One sausage. I ate the oatmeal and the sausage. The next day the tray comes with a bowl of oatmeal. Almost a yay except there’s no plate. War is declared. I order everything I can think of that’s soft, including prime rib. I learn if they don’t have it, they zero the whole menu, just for you. A pyrrhic victory at the least. Eventually, I leave the hospital and go to an intensive physical therapy/occupational therapy unit. That unit is run by the hospital and my reputation precedes me. A nice lady stops by to say hi. She’s the CEO. She asks is everything okay. Would be if I could have my oatmeal. As nice as this place is, I had to have my daughter get some oatmeal. My spouse brought brown sugar. I’ll get by, I think. Next day, and until I left that facility, every morning I had a
8 SEAMAGAZINE.COM SEPTEMBER 2021
