It was this pad that was leaking — at the bottom.
Day #8 today.
Pain is still negligible!
I had told my surgeon, just a few hours earlier, that I had become addicted to this unit. It was doing a great job mitigating the pain. I had not needed any narcotics. Just this unit + Aleve/Tylenol at standard dosing.
Five days after surgery they had removed the pad, for the first time, when they took off my original dressing.
It started leaking as soon as I put it back. To say I was distraught would be an understatement.
Amazon couldn’t get me one for a week.
I lucked out. My wife went back to the hospital, next morning, while I was still asleep. They gave her a new pad. That was magical. Really helped.,
I am still icing my knee, though not as much as before. Learned that too much might not be too good. So, in moderation.
You can catch it on YouTube.
We happened to see “The Syndicate — Hazelwood Manor” series on British “Acorn” (on our Roku) last week. Given that it was a series set in a British manor house we started watching it — and within minutes the sickly Lord of the Manor makes a “Downton Abbey” reference. That was cute.
We are all hooked on it as we were with “Downton“. Already seen 5 of the 6 episodes. We did not know about “The Syndicate” series. We assumed that it was meant to be a manor house program. Well this 6 episode series is, but ‘The Syndicate’ per se works on a larger premise. Each series is set in a different work location, a supermarket, a hospital and now a manor house — the syndicate being a group of workers that win the lottery.
Cute. Watchable. Not Downton or Mr. Selfridge. Some holes in the story line, but quite gripping nonetheless, and easy on the eye.
Does show you what would have happened to Downton 90 years from the last, concluding episode.
Yet Another Hospital Mix-Up At Birth (In Italy) — Same As What Happened To Me In Ceylon (Sri Lanka), 62 Years Ago.
by Anura Guruge
>> I Too Am “The Other Son”.
++++ Check Category ‘Sri Lanka’ or search ‘Ceylon’ for other posts >>>>
This what happened to Lorena Cobuzzi and Antonella Zenga, in Puglia, Italy, 26 years ago was also, exactly, what happened to me — 62 years ago, in Colombo, Ceylon, at the “Private General Hospital“. Except 62 years ago they, I am sure, didn’t use bracelets — and to exacerbate matters, 90% of the babies born at that hospital would have been uniformly brown, with black hair and black eyes.
I explained my story in June of this year in this post.
I was told of this, nearly daily, since I was around 5. I guess that is why I grew up used to the idea. I was a hospital mix-up and the folks I called my parents were NOT my real parents. We could NOT have been any different. It was like a black couple having a lily white son. Chalk and cheese. That is how my adoptive parents worked out, quite early on, that I was not their son. There was no way I was related to them. C’est la vie.
Yes, I would like to meet the ‘other’ me. My kids, who still can’t quite work out the implications, calls ‘him’ the real me!
I am trying to make some inquiries. The hospital is no longer in existence. There were NO computers in 1953. The births would have been entered into a ledger. So we are looking for another brown boy, born between September 2 to September 5, 1953 at the “Private General Hospital”, Colombo 7, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka).
by Anura Guruge
++++ Check Category ‘Sri Lanka’ or search ‘Ceylon’ for other posts >>>>
People get confused as to why I call myself adopted and make references to my adoptive-father and adoptive-mother. It is because I too was “The Other Son“, the Ceylon version; “The Other Son” a very powerful Israeli movie about babies accidentally swapped (i.e., mixed up) in a hospital shortly after birth.
So that is what I am, a hospital mix up.
How do I know?
Because ever since I can remember, say around age five onwards, I would be told AT LEAST once a day, usually many times more, that I was a ‘mix up at the hospital‘ and that my REAL FATHER was a ‘GAMBLER’. Wow. Doesn’t that explain it all? I later worked out that ‘gambler’ in 1950, still very Victorian, Ceylon meant that my real father, my biological father, was a rake (in the British sense). A playboy. Yes, Yes, YES. It all adds up. The very boring, teetotal, academic, with zero interest in sports, who was afraid of dogs, could NOT have been my father. It all made sense. Yes, it would be my adoptive-father who told me, daily, that I was ‘mix up at the hospital’ and how much he regretted that he never got his real child. But, my adoptive mother would also tell me the same thing, as did other relatives, and sometimes even the servants. I was the MISTAKE. And I am proud of it.
Why they did NOT fix it when they discovered the mistake — which was pretty obvious since I was nothing like my adoptive parents — is a mystery. I never asked. I guess I thought it was outside my control. Plus, I guess, deep down I did NOT want to be taken away from my “Ambili Amma” — Moon Mother — my adoptive mother’s mother, the person who brought me up.
My adoptive parents did NOT have much to do with me when I was growing up in Ceylon, 1953 – 1967. It was very Victorian. But rather than a nanny, I had my Ambili Amma. She is the one who brought me up from the time I came home. She is the one who made sure I had food, clothing, care and some amount of love. My adoptive parents were very busy. My father was a hot shot with multiple VIP jobs — Assistant Secretary of Education, Vice-Chancellor of a Buddhist university, a famous author etc. etc. My mother taught Pali at a Baptist Girls School. But they had a beyond hectic social life. They had engagements every evening, every day. They were part of the creme de la creme of Colombo society. So every day around 4pm my adoptive mother would start getting ready to go out. My father would arrive from one of his many jobs around 6pm and then they would be gone. Did not matter. Ambili Amma was always there. The house, a BIG house, was never empty. My adoptive mother’s youngest sister lived with us, as did a female cousin whose father had died. Plus we had servants and on top of that, at any given time, we might have another distant relative, usually male, living with us.
I saw my adoptive parents on a strict schedule. They would take me to school. That was when I mainly saw my adoptive father. 75% of the time we would pick me up, at 1pm, from Ananda College. We would then pick up my adoptive mother and her sister and come home for lunch. Those two car trips was when I mainly had interactions with my adoptive father. The rest of the time he was gone or working. Between 2 and 4 my mother, a teacher, would TEACH me. It was formal. That was basically the time I spent with her. The rest of the time she was gone or getting ready — and ‘getting ready’ was an elaborate process with lots of make up, getting hair put up etc. Think Victorian Britain and the Lady of the house. That was our house.
Then, when I was about 18 my adoptive father came up with a new line. He would tell people, most people, referring to me: “the devil looks after his own”. Nice. He was making it very clear that he was NOT my father — not that anybody needed to be told that. He, a very religious man (though 40% was for show because it helped with his politics), was disowning me and assigning my parentage to ‘the devil’. Yes, remember that gambler? I was always confused as to which devil was my real father — whether it was the rather ineffective Buddhist devil or the more, potent and interesting Christian devil. I was just glad that it just wasn’t the real devil that made my life a daily hell, i.e., my adoptive father.
So that is the story. I am a hospital mix up.
I should have done this earlier BUT I am now going to try and find out who my biological family was. It would be neat to meet the ‘real’ me! I assume he must still be alive, if not my biological parents. If they are alive I would love to meet them. Thank them for making me what I am. My real father has to be a character. I owe so much to him. He gave me the DNA that in the end, despite all the hardships I endured at the hands of my adoptive father, allowed me to lead a life where 99% I had a grin on my face.
Yes, one of my four kids, as is somewhat plain to see, is adopted and I made sure that I would try and be a good father to her because I knew, at first hand, the misery of being brought up by a father who hated you because you were not his — a hospital mix up.
I, Anura Guruge, the very proud and grateful son of a gambler that, alas, I have yet to meet.
Pope Francis’ Newly Appointed PRO-Secretary Of State, Pietro Parolin, Sidelined With Liver Complications! Also NO Camerlengo.
.by Anura Guruge
++++ Search on ‘pope‘ for other pope related posts and there are quite a few >>>>
Archbishop Pietro Parolin only became pro, i.e., acting, Secretary of State for the Holy See on October 15, 2013. That was just 10 days ago.
It now appears that he has been in hospital, undergoing surgery, much of that time!
‘Hepatobiliary‘, stated in the VIS communique above, like ‘hepatitis’, has to do with the liver. So it would appear that he has liver problems. Hhhmmm. Catholics prelates do have a well deserved reputation for being rather partial to expensive liquor (possibly as a reaction for having to maintain a public visage of celibacy).
This is rather awkward for the pope. He has a chunk of his lung missing and now his #2 has major liver problems. Oh, dear. I guess the Vatican vetting process is even worse that that used by John McCain.
Also notice that the VIS communique uses a totally manufactured, new term: ‘Archbishop Secretary of State‘. That is BECAUSE he is not a cardinal — as I pointed out on day one. Nothing wrong. Just something to be aware of.
It also occurred to me that the pope has not appointed a new Camerlengo.
The current Camerlengo, is my favorite, Lord Tarcisio Bertone — who until October 15, 2013 was also the commanding Secretary of State (and I think he did a very good job). On December 2, 2013, Lord Bertone will be 79. He can continue to be Camerlengo till be is 80. So he has another 14 months grace. But, an over-80 Camerlengo is about as useful as an illiterate man in a spelling bee. He can’t enter the conclave — and much of duties are within the conclave! So, keep an eye on that.
It is possible that the Pope might have to replace Parolin. IF so, will be still make cardinal?
Fascinating stuff. Stay tuned.
Please, Please, Please, Be Generous In Death, Donate Your Body To Science. Burial Or Cremation Is All So Passe And Unnecessary.
.by Anura Guruge
This morning, in the regular spam we get (despite GoDaddy e-mail doing a fairly decent job of trying to weed it out) we both got this e-mail for burial insurance.
Independently, we both had the same reaction. There are a number of things in life where Deanna and I think and feel exactly the same. One of them is the desire to donate our bodies to science when we die.
My adoptive grandfather, who was quite a guy, got the ball rolling as far as I was concerned. When he died, 92, he had his body given to a local university. He did not have a funeral per se. That made quite an impression on me. I, in my 30s at the time, hadn’t really given much thought to this, but as soon as I heard what he had wished, I promised myself that I will be doing the same. It has now been over a decade since I had my trust, will, living-trust, power-of-attorney etc. updated. I am pretty sure that my current will is specific that my body should be given to a hospital or university tout suite when I kick the bucket. I tell Deanna this on a regular basis and each time she gets mad, but I think she has a fairly clear idea as to what I want. I don’t want her to even tell my kids when I die. I just want her to make one call. Get my body to Dartmouth (or wherever) and then proceed with life as if nothing happened. No obituaries, no funerals, no phone calls. Nothing. She says she can’t do this, but we will see. This is my ardent wish.
Deanna too wants her body to be given to science, but she wants her death to be made known. That is where we differ.
Anyway, what is important is the DONATION of your body to science/medicine. Don’t be greedy, don’t be selfish. The Catholic Church now says it is ‘OK’ to be cremated. If so, it has to be even better, to donate your body to science. Come on, are YOU that gullible, that YOU think that your old, decrepit body is really going to rise from ‘the death’. Plus, isn’t it ‘dust-to-dust’. So if it is dust, what is there to rise (even with the help of Viagra)? So don’t cling to beliefs from the dark ages. If Catholics say you can still go to heaven if you get cremated, you sure should be able to do so, even quicker (with less time percolating in purgatory) IF your last act is truly selfless.
I have heard that Judaism is even stricter about the burial thing. So be it. BUT, if you can … PLEASE think about donating your body. Just think of the good. They can use every bit of you to help others.
Yes, I need to do some work. I would like my skeleton to be preserved. Yes, part of that is my irreverent humor. Nearly all real skeletons you find in the West came from India. Then in the early 1900s the Indians put a stop to that. So most skeletons you see now are plastic. So since people think I am ‘Indian’, I want my Indian skeleton to be put to use. The next bit of my logic is a bit more subtle. A skeleton has no race! Anybody looking at my skeleton will not be able to tell that I was not white. That amuses me. So, I want to make that point too. Plus, as I tell the kids, and it amuses (at least) Devanee, I want them to be able to come and shake my hand when I am dead and gone.
Right now, I think my paperwork, has Dartmouth-Hitchcock as the recipients of my body. But, I have spoken to them about my skeleton. They refuse to agree to that. Well, screw them. You can’t have my body. I will find somebody else. That is what I need to do. IF you know of a hospital or university that will preserve my skeleton, saving me the trouble of Googling, let me know and I will get my lawyer to update all the paperwork.