9:04 a.m. - Monday, Apr. 07, 2003
Nightmare in Conburi
I don�t know for sure how long I laid in bed, unable to see. There was a clock on the wall, but even when I could force my eyes open, I couldn�t find it, much less read it. The night before surgery, I had unthinkingly drawn the heavy drapes across the window to my room, so I couldn�t even tell if it was day or night.

One thing I did do, though, was fill out my menu for breakfast the morning following my operation. I can only assume that when it came, Ms menu dutifully laid out the menu and order slip for my next three meals and then took them away unmarked when she took away my untouched breakfast.

Having no other instructions, the kitchen staff simply carried on with their last ones, preparing, delivering and taking back a plate of scambled eggs, fresh cut pineapple, and their best facsimile of white toast at every meal time during the next two or three days. On the same day I managed to snag a piece of dry bread/toast and feed it in tiny pieces through my stringy lips, she put the menu into my hands and made me to understand that I should fill it out.

�I no can see�, I croaked plaintively.

�Yes, yes�. Fill out. I take. Thankyouverymuch� she bubbled.

I felt the form paper clipped to the plastic covered menu. I did not know, but assumed that it was right side up and face up. I couldn�t see any writing at all. I couldn�t see the menu. But I did remember that the individual items were numbered. I took a chance and just wrote some random numbers onto the form.

My next meal turned out to be 9, 14, 6, and 25. That would be the thin, watery mushroom soup in a metal bowl, accompanied by another bowl of boiled tomato sliced in water, a fresh salad composed of shredded greens of unknown origin, and a small bag of ice.

In a giant step backwards, I had lost even the bread. I still wasn�t up to trying to sit up and eat the soup, but I did find the salad and eat a good share of that. It even came with a sweet dressing which was pretty darn good.

After two more unlikely meals and twenty four hours of trying to find some way to lay a head that looked and felt for all the world like a freshly sewn major league horsehide baseball on my pillow with the least amount of agony, I got another shot at it.

I wanted pineapple bad. I love the local ones. But I couldn�t remember the number. I wanted my bread back too! It came with a pat of foil-wrapped butter and a little plastic dish of lemon curd that could only be opened with hand tools or strong teeth. The truth is, I wanted just about anything at all, but it had to be something I was capable of moving from tray to oral slit with my fingers. Otherwise I would starve. Really.

Thankfully, Wannee turned up out of nowhere. I know I had been being visited, because I remember making the same promise over and over.

�Next time I be more friendly�.

When I heard her voice and felt her hand slip into mine, I grabbed it in a grip that might have felt on the edge of desperate to her. Before I would let go, I made her to understand that I wanted pineapple and bread for every meal. Salad too. Even breakfast. Then, having gotten her to do whatever Thais do among themselves to make a situation understood, I prevailed on her to feel around in my suitcases until she came up with a plastic bag I had packed in case of an in-flight emergency� like no meal. Inside were a Slim-Fast bar, small bag of peanuts, pack of crackers and some dry cookies. It�s like I�ve said before� there is always a way. My condition was improved.

Later, once I could see again, I realized that yes, the menu items were numbered, but the numbers were not unique. Merely writing numbers on the form could net you all kinds of crazy combinations. Didn�t I learn this last time? I also recall, and I must have known at the time, that I could summon a nurse at anytime day or night, say �pizza�, and a hot pizza would soon arrive by motorcycle messenger. �KFC� would result in chicken, and �cheeseburger�, which was an actual menu item, would cause two regular McDonald�s Cheeseburgers with pickles and ketchup to appear only slightly chilled.

It�s just that see, I can�t ask for help. When I say I�d rather starve than ask for help, please believe me. I don�t know why. I just know it�s true.

So really� who gets the blame for that part of the nightmare? Me? For not ringing the little buzzer that hung the whole time right by my head? You know, the one that causes doors to fling open and white nurses shoes to fly across the hall to my bedside?

You could be right.

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