Judy was shocked when I came back through the swinging doors from the Blue Colony Diner’s bathroom laughing uncontrollably and sat back down at our booth.
“Ummm, Lease? Weren’t you crying when you went back to the bathroom?”
I nodded, unable to speak or even breathe. Unable to stop laughing long enough to explain.
My sister was clearly afraid that I had gone over the edge. And of course she had good reason to worry. You see, I had met her at the Diner hours earlier than planned, straight from a pre-surgical appointment with my doctor – my surgeon — in Baltimore.
He had, well, upset me. I cried for the three hours it took me to drive the normal four-plus hour trip.
At the Diner, I told Judy that the surgery I was facing with abject terror in just over a month was going to be two operations, instead of the one I knew about. Nobody, not one person among all the medical folks I met with, in all the months we’d been discussing my options, had thought to mention that, ummm, minor detail.
I was terrified.
I was pissed.
I was wallowing in self-pity.
So of course I was rather emotional as Judy and I sat in that booth at the Diner. There, over tears and coffee, I explained the two procedures. And then, because the reason for the surgery was bowel disease, naturally, I had to go.
The Blue Colony Diner’s bathroom is small with two stalls. I had gone into the stall next to the wall with the window at the top, made myself comfortable on the pot, and got down to business, when it happened.
I heard a bang above me and looked up to see a ladder appear, neatly centered in the window. And then I saw a large, work-gloved-hand on the lowest visible rung. And then a second gloved hand appeared. And then the first one moved up a rung. The top of a painter’s cap popped into view.
Shit!!! Someone was coming and I was in no position for visitors.
I was also in no position to leave quickly because, well, I was having bowel problems. There was nowhere to hide — by then, somebody was in the next stall. All I could do was sit there, waiting, watching and laughing. The fact that the man climbing the ladder would soon look down at me shaking with laughter only made it worse. I couldn’t stop pooping, I couldn’t stop laughing, I couldn’t finish up and leave. I couldn’t do anything but wait for the inevitable while watching one hand after another go up the ladder rungs.
Back at the table, I was eventually able to tell Judy what had happened, wiping my tears away.
“This could only happen to me,” I said. Then I sighed and looked at my sister. “Shit. I guess I have to have the god damn operations. Both of them.”
“Yeah,” said Judy taking my hand, “I guess you have to.”
Laughing at the bizarre appearance of a man in the window of the bathroom had let me laugh instead of cry. It helped me calm down and accept the inevitable. Let me come to terms with what I knew I had to do. That yeah, it was two operations. And yeah, I had to have them or continue to be sick. Really sick. The “sighting” let me release my anger and most of my self-pity. The terror hung around a while longer.
“You know,” I said to Judy as we left, “I don’t know what I’d do if I had a disease that wasn’t funny. Imagine how hard it is,” I said, “to have heart disease!”
I couldn’t have been more right. Being able to laugh at my poop problem made it stink a little bit less for me and for the folks who went through it with me. My family, friends, and co-workers. Not so much my doctors. Frankly, they just didn’t get the humor or my need for it.
So when I read an article in the New York Times about an oncologist who jokes around with his patients, I was delighted. I wanted to cheer. I wanted to shout “It’s about time one of you guys figured this out!” I wanted to pat the author on the back.
I also wanted to say “DUH!”
You know that I am a fake medical professional. I am, however, an actual expert patient. I’ve been going to one specialist after another for 40 years; I’ve had loads of practice. Still, I swear I can count on one hand the chuckles I’ve had with doctors in a professional setting. Seriously! And that doesn’t make facing your illness (and your own mortality) any easier.
Most doctors — especially specialists — seem like they are preparing you for the afterlife rather than helping you be healthy in this one. Funeral directors act less like funeral directors than do most doctors. Yup, the Docs are often about as comforting as Charon, rowing you across to Hades.
You really need to take this seriously, missy.
Take my doctors (yup, I’m tempted to add “please”). They are wonderful doctors, but it’s been hard to find one with a personality until fairly recently.
Dr. C., the gastroenterologist I was seeing when I was really sick in the 1980s, was a terrific doctor. He took great care of me. He was knowledgeable about the latest treatments and it was he who recommended me for what was then a new, fairly radical surgical procedure that gave me my life back. I will always be deeply thankful to him.
But he had no sense of humor at all. He would look at me with deadly seriousness throughout my office visits and procedures. I was always joking with him; that’s how I act with everybody. He didn’t seem to get it though. He didn’t seem to understand that I am funny and that that’s how funny people act. Or that I might be afraid. Or perhaps nervous. Or that I felt completely alone. Did I mention that I was terrified?
Early on in my treatment, Dr. C. once actually said to me, “Elyse, I don’t think you are taking your disease seriously enough.”
“Is there something you’ve told me to do that I’m not doing?” I asked. “Am I ignoring any of your advice? Any instructions? Any helpful hints?”
“Well, no. But you are treating your illness too lightly. You joke about it all the time. You have a serious illness, Elyse. You need to take it seriously. You need to act serious.”
“Oh, you mean it’s not normal to poop every time you take a breath?” I asked.
He gave me a stern look.
“Dr. C., the only way I can deal with this disease is with humor. The only way. Besides, poop is funny. Not so funny that I want to do it quite so often, but still. It’s funny.”
From then on for the two years he took care of me, I was on a mission to make him laugh. It made those serious sessions more bearable. And when I finally succeeded? Oh it was sweet!
[Dr. C was trying to untie one of those crummy ties on my paper gown so he could examine me. Instead, he knotted it and couldn’t get it open.
As he fumbled with it, I deadpanned “Good thing you’re not a surgeon.”
His eyes widened and then it happened. He laughed. ]
Gastroenterologists are a particularly somber bunch, and that, well, that I just don’t get. How can that be? I mean, they have their hands and their noses in people’s butts all day, every day. You would think they’d need a good laugh.
[Only once did one crack a joke. He finished my rectal exam, and taking off his rubber glove, said: “My children don’t understand why I enjoy doing that.” I could have kissed him, but he smelled like poop, so I didn’t.]
Now back to the article. It’s called “Poking Fun at My Patients.” Dr. Mikkael Sekeres wrote about how he jokes around with his cancer patients, just as if they might need a chuckle. Just as if they are normal folks. As if they might just need the reassurance of normal personal interaction.
Wow.
Seriously. It may be a medical milestone. I’m pretty sure that this realization will come as a shock to many doctors. It’s really too bad they already awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine this year.
Dr. Sekeres has normal joking interaction with patients. Give and take, a little bit silly. And it makes them more relaxed, more comfortable. It helps them to feel that they are people to him, not just a disease in some sort of organic frame.
Here is more of what Dr. Sekeres wrote:
Certain aspects of medical school, like learning the basics of normal and abnormal organ function, or rotating onto specialty services as mini-apprenticeships to recognize disease and treat it, haven’t changed much in 100 years of medical education.
What has changed is the emphasis on communicating with patients, which includes understanding how social and cultural factors and life circumstances can influence everything from disease occurrence to medication compliance. This is a good thing.
[…]
I need to have insight into their lives outside my stark exam room to appreciate how their environments will affect the care plans we develop.
We also learn how patients react to illness, and how a diagnosis like cancer can dramatically alter a family’s landscape, or how a person defines herself.
Serious illness can be physically and financially devastating. It can also be incredibly isolating because you sometimes feel like the only person with such bad luck, or like you might have done something differently that would have prevented the disease, or that your life sucks and then you’re gonna die. And it’s gonna happen to you sooner rather than later. Often it’s all of the above in some random pattern you never quite figure out. It can engulf you.
The emotional burden of illness, though, can be eased a bit if more doctors act like Dr. Sekeres. Being treated with a smile and a little bit of humor, well, it can make all the difference.
So next time you go to your doctor, especially a specialist you’re scared to see, tell him/her something from me and Dr. Sekeres:
Hey Doc? Lighten UP!
* * *
Oops. I apparently didn’t make it clear that this adventure, and those surgeries, happened 30 years ago. I survived.
FiftyFourandAHalf 
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This is maybe the first time I read the blog piece, and not the comments, but who has that kind of time today? I’m sure I’m missing some intelligent and uproariously funny opportunities by skipping the comments today, (and I may just have to come back, just for the comments), but wanted to say that I enjoyed (a) Judy’s cameo appearance, (b) the idea of humor being essential to good medical care, and (c) that your writing still kills me, when I turn off the noises in my head long enough to actually read every word.
I swear, you should write a book. You know you should write a book. Find the time! Write the book! Help us survive this insanity by laughing our way through the loop-de-loops. Very much enjoyed this one, Elyse! 🙂
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And you, my friend, could be a professional commenter!
I’ve started a memoir on Goliath which focuses heavily on this time period. But I stopped last summer when Cooper died. Now that I have a puppy, I am too pooped!
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I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
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That works. And you’ll see if you read the comments on this post that humor helps. As they say, laughter is the best medicine.
But I can make you sad again. This took place in Newtown, CT. Sandy Hook. That’s where my sister lived, where she raised her 3 kids.
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oh man…
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Yup.
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once again at a loss for words
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Excuse me while I mark down this date on my calendar …
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You have done it to me before
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Maybe once or twice *evil smirk*
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sigh
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Elyse, I love how you make a topic like this hilarious. But I feel bad you had to go through this stuff–especially the “public” pooping. No, especially the need for surgery. Maybe especially the surgery.
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Luanne, you jumped into the Way Back Machine!
This post actually makes me sad. The diner with the window? It’s in Newtown, Ct.
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I’m glad I wasn’t there with you . . . . I think you’re feeling better now, is that right?
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This was 30 years ago… I still have problems but different ones. I’m going to be Amazon-healthy in my next life.
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Me too. I figured out how. I’m going to come back when they get all the gene-altering stuff figured out and then I’m going to eat oranges and spinach all day long. Sounds kind of boring put that way.
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Normally I do not read post on blogs, however I
wish to say that this write-up very forced me to try and do it!
Your writing style has been surprised me. Thank you, quite great post.
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Thanks
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You are a Freshly Pressed machine! Belated congrats on this! Well deserved. And by that I mean, you’ve been through a lot of sh*t (pun intended) and somehow make it funny. I still can’t get over the workman with the ladder.
Oh, doctors. It’s hard to believe they’re human sometimes.
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Wait–doctors are human? Stop the presses!
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Ah ha … You get the FP on the one that I missed! 😦 You simply have a way with words in retrospective situations! 🙂
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I will not, repeat, will NOT take that to mean you think that I am not forward thinking 😉
Thanks Frank. You’re excused for missing one. Just the one, though!
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I’m interning at the surgery casualty department . Last week a patient in the ward died from an embolus and the MO and the CA of our ward gave him CPR for a good 20 minutes. I was the one who checked the vitals later and called the time of death.
Later me and the other intern doctors were sitting around in the intern room in a somber mood. Someone switched on the TV and a really really old Tom and Jerry cartoon came on. Somewhat later one of us laughed , enjoying the cartoon and we all joined in.
Yea we do laugh but I guess we don’t show it that much 🙂
Great post!
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Oh dear. For ER trauma folks, well, I think there needs to be a whole different set of rules. The stuff you deal with is enough to send the rest of us over the bend, I think, so, while I bet there is a healthy amount of gallows humor backstage, I am not going to presume to give you advice.
I don’t know you, but I can feel your dedication in your comment. Thanks from all of us who’ve ever been cared for by you guys, and from our families and friends.
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Patch Adams said it best, ““The purpose of a doctor or any human in general should not be to simply delay the death of the patient, but to increase the person’s quality of life.” You’re right, just because the illness is serious doesn’t mean we always have to be serious. What better way to improve a person’s quality of life, then through humor. Great story. Thanks for sharing :々
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In one of my med school applications, I was asked to list 5 qualities a physician should have. Taking a slight gamble, I listed “humor” as one of them, with the explanation “try getting a rectal exam from an stone-faced grump” (which, like you, I’ve also learned from experience). After reading this post, though, that essay is feeling a bit less like it was a bad idea. It’s good to know that other people out there (and future patients of mine, perhaps?) want their docs to prescribe them reasons to laugh, too. 🙂
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They should make you DEAN, Allie, for that answer. I am sure at a minimum it made them look at you again.
Humor from doctors is probably a little more difficult then when they respond to it from their patients. That was one of the things I noticed in Dr. Sekeres’ article — he joked about normal stuff, not his patient’s cancer. Just kept it so that they were comfortable being with him.
Good luck — I am hoping you got into medical school!
And “Allie” was the name of one of my great aunts — one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. Just seeing the name made me smile. Thanks!
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“I survived.” I’m so glad you did, my friend. I greartly enjoyed this important message.
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Thanks Russ. I wasn’t sure if anybody would realize I was still around if I hadn’t spelled it out ;).
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Great post. Humor takes so much pressure off a seemingly unending situation or a new diagnosis. I’m convinced that most doctors feel overly obligated to talk about the absolute worst case scenario before they finally say something like “But that won’t necessarily happen.” If not for humor, how is a brain supposed to cope with all that information? I’m so thankful for family and friends who have laughed (and cried) with me when life seemed too ridiculous.
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In our society, the doctors have to tell you the worst that might happen for legal reasons. It is what it is. That’s why those drug advertisements go on and on and on. (Still, even if folks are warned, they sue, regardless.)
You’re right about the brain processing part. Sometimes it is just too much to handle. And that’s when I’m absolutely gonna laugh.
Thanks for your comment and for stopping by.
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What a post! Great wordplay: “Being able to laugh at my poop problem made it STINK a little bit less for me and for the folks who went through it with me.” Plus, a great message. Let’s get our doctors talking to patients as if they’re real people, maybe remember to tell them the details of the surgery (or surgeries) they’ll be getting.
Thanks for sharing with such honesty 🙂
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Thanks for stopping by and for your comment. I do think that doctors are loosening up — or maybe mine just have no choice ;). There also needs to be someone who will sit down with patients and make sure they really do understand what is in store for them. That’s what didn’t happen with my surgeries — everybody thought I knew. Thanks, guys.
As for my honesty, well, it’s really easy to be upfront about bowel problems. Modesty and embarrassment are the first things to go!
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I remember when I broke my ankle a few years back. I fell half way down the steps. There were four steps. I broke my ankle on step three. It’s all in how you land. Now, I also severely sprained the other ankle. I felt like I was going into shock.
I had enough first aid/CPR classes to feel aware of that and to know that shock can be fatal. I was rushing to work, late, and all the neighbors had already left. So I was a little stuck, sitting on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps, partly blocked from the view of the road by a creeping rose bush in last June.
I did the only think I could think up. I sat there for a while doing meditave breathing that I learned from a cassette tape of Daoist breathing mediations. It seemed like a strange impulse buy one year, but you would not believe how often those breathing exersizes came in handy.
It was probably only 15 minutes. I felt like everything was going back to normal. I have always paid very close attention to body signals. So I thought I was in the clear for going shocky. But then I had to figure out how to get back UP the steps and into the house to call a friend to take me to the hospital.
Once there, I couldn’t stop laughing. I got a lot of strange looks. They thought the right was sprainged the left broken. It was the other way around when the x-rays came back. Some people thought I broke both of them. Finally someone asked me why I was laughing.
I had two options. Laugh or cry. I was SO much pain. Later, I would discover that the family of pain killers they wanted to give me didn’t work for me and I spent weeks in more pain than I should have. But I broke my ankle falling two steps down. Two steps. I nearly broke both of them. A little more pressure on the sprained one might have done it. The sprained one turned twice as black as the broken one and must have swollen up twice as much too. It was truly amazing to look at!
There was too much to laugh about and why cry when you can laugh?
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Oh, Urban, my ankles are both hurting reading your story. Glad you managed to keep your humor during the whole thing (well, mostly!)
I’m sure you’ve heard People’s Parties by Joni Mitchel
Laughing and crying you know it’s the same release!
Besides, crying gives me a nasty headache!
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True! Laughter IS a pain reaction.
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I LOVED reading this. You see, I’ve been married for 11 years to a man who in those 11 years has completed med school, residency, and two years so far of private practice as an ear/nose/throat specialist. He has amazing sarcasm and just between you and me, would love to quit his day job to be a comedian or a co-host on the BBC show “Top Gear”. Really, though, just between you and me…
As a physician counseling patients on everything from tonsillectomies to cancer surgeries, I suppose it is hard for him to gauge his patients’ openness to humor. He uses humor a lot at home to process his work days. I’ve been told here and there that he has a great bedside manner, and I hope that that means that he uses humor sometimes–because he is darn good at making me laugh!
One of your comments made me laugh out loud–about your joking at your surgeon’s expense when he was fumbling with a knot. I make that joke with my dear V. all the time, because he is something of a klutz at home. I also joke with him that he can perform impeccable, microscopic surgeries, but he doesn’t quite have the hang of putting a ponytail in our little girl’s hair.
Thank you for sharing this story; not only did it make me laugh, it made me thankful all over again for the wonderful gift of humor my husband has, in a profession that is apparently dying for more laughter!! I also pray that your health is good! Keep writing!
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It’s so nice to get an unusual perspective on this issue. I imagine that your husband uses his humor with patients in a way that makes them comfortable — that’s such a big part of “good bedside manner”. I am feeling rather guilty for saying that they are all stern, because they aren’t and not all of mine have been.
It is a pretty fine line, I’m sure. How to tell who wants to hear their doctor joking and who wants to hear only those somber notes, must be a constant challenge.
Thanks for sharing your story. But my husband is in line ahead of yours for “Top Gear.”
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Many docs are stern, you shouldn’t feel guilty. Seeing what I have seen, though, of the educational and training processes, I understand why many doctors become not just stern, but bitter and gruff and even angry. It is unfortunate–I think it depends a lot on what that individual was like, what he or she had to rely on, before beginning the path to M.D. My dear husband had me, his faith in God, and a strong family network to keep his head above water during the tough times. His sarcasm, I believe, goes way back in his youth. His perspective is also unique because of his background–he came to this country as a toddler with essentially nothing. His parents learned a trade, learned the language…and now they are business owners and their children are successful professionals. It’s hard to be too stern or joyless, when he has so much for which he is thankful! I think if I ever write a book worth reading someday, it will be about that wonderful, sarcastic, brilliant man of mine. Thanks for inadvertently reminding me of how super he is! And I’m glad that you are a patient who helps the doctors lighten up–YOU are medicine to them!!
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What a great story. I will be checking out your blog for some of your stories over there.
Thanks for the great dialog!
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Thanks, I write a true mish-mash of whatever is going on! It’s mostly for my sanity, and I hope to encourage and amuse some people along the way!
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This is one of the funniest post ever! And it’s totally neat that you were able to laugh at the ‘sighting’…cos I KNOW I would’ve totally died of embarrassment right there! 🙂
You’re right, by the way. Doctors should probably just have Humor as a subject during their degree years! Or maybe that just kills the idea of humor 😛
And for some reason I really love the last sentence!
Congrats on Freshly Pressed, you’re amazing! 😀
Check mine too?
Cheers! 😀
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Welcome, Mango, thanks for coming by. Thanks for your nice comment (and I will absolutely check out your blog).
I think that many doctors are loosening up, or maybe I am choosing based on how I feel about them (I am very fussy — I only let good doctors man(woman?) handle me).
As for being embarrassed when the guy was coming, I can always put stuff like that into perspective. When you have hundreds of folks poking around in your but, embarrassment is a relative thing!
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I’ve had a struggle with cervical cancer in the past and have had many pretty unpleasant office procedures done. My Gyn was an amazing doctor and very efficient and professional, but he too, never even smiled. I am always super nervous when having my pap because of the very brief pain that is required to get beneathe the accumulated scar tissue, but afterwards I am giddy with joy that it is over. The last time, upon completion of a very quick procedure, I just as quickly popped back into the upright position, looked him in the eye and said, “You give good pap!”. Finally, after 20 years of doctor/patient stuff, the man smiled….and chuckled. It made my day! I told him he should do it more often……it’s good medicine. Thank you for your wonderful post today and for making me laugh right out loud with your endearing sense of humor! I’m new to your blog, but can already tell that I will treasure you and your posts! xoxo
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That’s a great line, Julia. I may have to steal it! Glad you got him to laugh — it’s a wonderful feeling when you succeed, isn’t it.
Glad you liked the post — thanks for coming by and for telling your story too.
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“fake medical professional -and- an actual expert patient”… can’t stop laughing. :)))) gooooooooooooood 1
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Oh, but I really am a fake medical professional. Medical writing. But don’t worry, I ask lots of questions!
Welcome to 54.5!
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Reblogged this on 1 Million Reblogs.
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Thanks Mel.
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No problem 🙂
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Masterfully written piece on the trials and tribulations we go through with physicians. It is probably a good idea to start adding more patient / doctor interaction classes in medical school.
Congratulations on being Freshly Pressed …!!!!
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Thanks, Isadora. I do think they’re getting better. And it doesn’t always work. One surgeon I met with once had obviously been told he needed to relate better with patients. He didn’t have any sense of humor or timing or humanity, actually. He was incredibly condescending and spoke more to my husband than to me. When my husband and I left, he high-fived me and shook my husband’s hand. Ummm, I didn’t go back!
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Congrats on the Fresh Press! I had a feeling someone would notice 😉
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Thanks, Nap!
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You wrote a page right out of my life. I find myself rating my physicians according to their sense of humor and self-deprecation over all other sweet medical skills. Neurologists? Surely the most uptight of them all. My pulmonologist? He ranks pretty well because we discuss fishing trips, the Colorado Rockies, and other unnecessary topics. I think he is funny in real life, I just haven’t gotten him to break a sweat in his office yet. The funniest physician of all, for me, is my urologist. His jokes don’t just dribble, they roll down the floor. 🙂 Congratulations on being FP! I loved this post so much I may just print it out and give it away as Christmas gifts to all my physicians!!
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Why thanks, Joy. And I’m glad to know that there is at least one urologist whose humor flows … Sorry you’re in the club of hanging out with these guys too much though. There are better clubs! I’d like to get into a different on myself.
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Well, as a rural family doc, it’s nice to know there is valid evidence it there that backs up me sharing personal stories about my life with my patients and laughing with them at times. But then I have been known to cry with them to if needed. The hard part about medicine is knowing when to use humor with a patient and when not to.
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You are one smart doctor, then, Doc. But you’re right as well as compassionate. And I suspect you can tell when a joke is inappropriate too (surgeons joking about shakey hands is never a good thing!). I bet you’re a wonderful doctor.
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Thanks. I try. Yes, humor in medicine can be a good thing, but it can also be a very inappropriate and bad thing as well.
The biggest thing I try to remember when dealing with patients is how would I want my mom or husband treated if I were not here. And I try to remember that no one besides a bunch if medical geeks no what words like adenoma means anyway. So, it’s always been important to me to explain things – or to try anyway – in real words that everyday people use.
Thanks again for the positive compliment. It’s nice to get an atagirl sometimes.
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I think the trick may be to remember that the patients are humans not specimens. That their people with hopes and, often in a medical setting, fears.
But I think from your comments that you have balanced it! And therefore the “Atagirl” is well deserved!
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Thanks again. Will try to keep my balance.
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Laughter IS THE BEST MEDICINE! Thanks I still haven’t stopped smiling, having just arrived back from an appointment with a “specialist”! Congrats on being freshly pressed ~ Mary
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Shame you didn’t read this before going to the specialist, Mary!
Thanks for your nice comment. Good luck with whatever ails you and I hope humor can help to carry you through it.
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Yes, humor would be wonderful when dealing with doctors. It would let patients know they’re human and that they also recognize you as one too.
It reminds me of a few years ago when I had appendicitis. Usually, it’s a quick trip to the hospital once diagnosed, but we were on a trip to Egypt when I started to become sick. The doctor the hotel brought in misdiagnosed my symptoms as the typical digestive problems that can happen when traveling and put me on antibiotics. After a week and a half, I was still sick and on new meds (I couldn’t keep the other ones down).
When we got back to Germany (where I lived at the time), I went to the hospital. Turns out, when doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with you, they have pretty much every doctor come look at you, poke and prod you, and try to figure your case out. I kept wanting to shout “hello, I’m alive and yes that does hurt.” At one point, they though I had ovarian cysts and that they would have to remove my ovaries (quite frightening news to receive). Then the night before the surgery, I was told I would either have a horizontal or vertical scar starting at my belly button. Thankfully, it was the former and now I have 4 scars on my abdomen from the procedure.
I definitely would have welcomed a little compassion and humor. Luckily, the doctor who took care of me during my two-week recovery was nice and friendly, cute too.
Thanks for sharing your story and congratulations on freshly pressed!
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Ooh, those vertical scars hurt more — so you lucked out. And having the cute doctor after is better than before. Drugs always make me much more pleasant than terror does.
Thanks for stopping by and reading.
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Dang! I must be doing something wrong – people claim I’m terrifying, with or without drugs…..
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But you’re not a doctor, John. When you come at somebody with a knife they have even more reason to be terrified.
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(Slips into best Aussie accent.) “That’s not a noife! THIS (pulls out 3.5 foot longsword) is a noife!” 😀
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Groan.
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See? I TOLD you that copied “groan” would pay dividends! (And I was nice to you – my usual representative for the “that’s a knife” routine is my 54″ long hand-and-a-half sword – also known as a bastard sword. My favourite one, for some unknown reason….. 😉 )
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ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz
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Sorry, I know you’re still out there. I can hear you shaking your head in disbelief….
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You’re wrong, John. I was out of the nightmare of this string of comments and snoozing peacefully 😉
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good for you … I have a chronic skin condition and sometimes the only way to cope is to laugh, so I applaud you and am o delighted it all went well
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I was just getting ready to comment and saw 500 before me – hey, what’s going on here? Oh yeah, Freshly Pressed! Congrats – it is richly deserved.
Congrats also on laying this topic and your illness bare with such honesty. Good luck with your surgeries, Elyse.
I can just see you laughing and crying on the pot in the restaurant. Now I want to know what the guy said when his head finally cleared the windowsill and saw you down below.
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Oh Peg, so many answers for you. Thanks for your congrats. I was surprised and pleased. I thought they’d forgotten me. But I’m going to choose a better picture next time because Charon is poling me out of the Freshly Pressed picture way too quickly!
It is often difficult to completely hide poop problems, that’s why I own up to them. They can be, ahem, all over the place. BUT, this episode happened 30 years ago. I am coming up on my 30th anniversary (next month) of the surgery that changed/saved my life. So it’s on my mind. And the article reminded me how important that particular chuckle in the bathroom was.
Now as to the gloved one (who was gloved WAY before Michael Jackson), the answer is, I don’t know. All I can remember is seeing the gloves and the cap and then doubling over laughing. I don’t know if he climbed up and saw me or not. Or if someone warned him to get down. I don’t remember seeing the face. All I can remember is laughing and laughing and laughing.
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Wow, Elyse! Congrats on being Freshly Pressed 🙂
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Thanks, Paprika!
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