SRV is gone and I don't feel so good myself.

So, I'll fast forward to the time when I was transferring to Georgia Baptist Hospital after Douglas General used all the goody they had trying to save my left leg from the shin down. You know you are in deep doo-doo, health wise, when you overhear a Doctor tell a nurse, "at least we won't have the liability hanging over us any more" speaking of your leaving their facility for higher ground. To me it meant they must have screwed something up, couldn't fix what was broke, or just slap ran out of education when it came to my injuries. I had endured maybe 22 serious surgeries in that particular facility, (well, I guess they're all serious, right?) and let me tell you, they were all for naught. Nothing that had been done on the operating table took ahold of whatever was ailing me. I had such severe bone infection that my leg would swell up as big as a basketball, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. They'd think they had a handle on my infection, take me off the numerous meds they had prescribed, and two days later I'd be hunting a basketball court. It was like magic. I would feel good for about ten to twelve hours and then I'd feel like I had the flu coming on, get a scratch in my throat and the next morning my left ankle would be orange and red with a hint of green tossed in for good measure. It was a three ring circus until the day I met Dr. Griffin, plastic surgeon, and things began to change.

I was a good two and a half months into my then unknown long hospital stay, when I received two bits of bad news. I remember the exact date, August 28, 1990 at around ten in the morning. I had a "consult" with the aforementioned Dr. Griffin, on what I assumed was to close the open wound site where my leg injury was opened, debrided (a fancy three dollar college word for cleaned up) then closed, repeatedly.  The site was so ragged from numerous opening and closing procedures it wouldn't hold stitches any longer, so a "big deal" plastic surgeon was needed. My dear bride, who was working and holding our small family together was running a bit late but arrived in enough time to be there for our scheduled meeting, looking a bit flustered when she arrived. She walked into my room, hesitated, then laid this bit of news on me. "Jim, I have something terrible to tell you, Stevie Ray Vaughn was killed last night in a helicopter crash." I didn't even have time to react when Dr. Griffin walked in and said to us both, "I understand that I am here to do a consult on a stump cover." Whhaaat? Me and my brides favorite blues guitarist just died unexpectedly, you want to cut my foot off, then cover the end up like Captain Hook? Gimme a second here, dude, just a second.

A few things crossed my mind at that moment. A. Was there a God? B. The Venus DeMilo...what's the big deal? C. Who invented liquid soap and why? D. Would it be possible to get a peg-leg for occasional boating excursions and have an eye patch and use words like "Arrrrgh" and "Booty" in the proper pirate context? About the time those items had finished processing themselves in the "dumb question" part of my brain every man possesses, I remembered hearing the term "stump cover". I was about to utter the the same two words in the form of a question, Jeopardy! style, when on cue my lovely bride asked; "Stump Cover? This is the first, we've heard of it, Dr. Griffin, you'll have to do a bit more explaining, if you don't mind..." catching him totally off guard. I recognized her using the voice and tonality I hear on the rare occasion when she gets pissed off. Well, pre-pissed off if the truth gets told. He hesitated for a few seconds, recognizing her bellicose tone, and stammered a bit before his calculated response. "So, this is the first you've heard of it, am I hearing you correctly?". He was obviously buying himself time to sort out a better response. He then did what most doctors would have done, he grabbed the "chart" hanging at the end of my bed, flipping through pages and scratching his chin, saying "yeeess" and "Mmm-hmmm" over and over as he rifled through it, so fast in fact, he couldn't have picked up any pertinent information other than the pages were white and the ink was black. He then looked at me, his eyes and reading glasses showing just barely above the chart "Kilroy was here" style, and said, "So your orthopedic surgeon hasn't mentioned anything to you concerning the removal of your left foot at just above the ankle break?" My answer?

"Nope"

I saw him go a bit pale and under his voice I could hear him quietly mutter "Perfect" while his head hid behind the aluminum chart he held in his perfectly manicured hands. I guess my surgeon had screwed the pooch and had literally pussy-ied out on telling me the bad news. I looked at Dr. Griffin and told him, "Look here Doc, I've gotten two pieces of bad news today inside of ten minutes, first, SRV was killed last night, and now you want to resort to cutting off my leg rather than try to save it, and my insurance is paying at 100%, isn't there anything else that can be done?" My run on sentence was returned with a somewhat confused look. I guess he didn't like Texas style blues guitar much, his bow-tie and Brooks Brothers suit screaming "Opera!". He hesitated briefly, choosing his words carefully. "I think the decision about what direction your treatment should take ought to be made by someone more qualified to answer that question than me." Meaning he was passing the buck off to someone else too, just like Dr. Wusmeister, my orthopedic surgeon. He continued, "Regardless of the outcome, your stump cover, if that's indeed what is required, needs to be done by someone more specialized than myself." He continued," Their is a Dr. Zubowitz, renowned plastic surgeon, who practices at Georgia Baptist Hospital. I will call his office and schedule an appointment for you immediately. It means you will be transferred there and your treatment with this hospital will be concluded. We will keep you until Friday then we will transfer you there." He then flipped the chart shut with a clang, dropped it back in it's slot and walked out the door. "Good Luck" was the last words he uttered and that was as he made his exit.

He didn't even ask who SRV was before he left.

Friday rolls around and five o'clock P.M. arrives. The nurses I had been assigned all walked in to prepare me for my departure. A few said prayers over me, and a few even wept some, we had all gotten to know each other pretty well by then. They handed me my orders and my appointment with the new plastic surgeon I was to engage at the big hospital in Atlanta Ga was set. The location of my new hospital digs meant I was going to be within site of Crawford Long Hospital, the place where I came kicking and screaming into this world thirty years prior. I used to tell people, "I was born on Peachtree Street, you can't get any more Southern than that". I surmised, right then, if I was going to leave this world soon, it would have been appropriate somehow to exit right near where I started out this life. I thought to myself, maybe, if I was to going to give up my ghost, God might allow my soul to pass down Peachtree Street, and through the Fablous Fox Theater where I had seen so many concerts, then through the Agora ballroom where I took my bride on our first date to see Huey Lewis and the News. Maybe I could zip through my old neighborhood one more time and get to visit where I buried my lunch box full of Hot Wheels. I hid them in my back yard and forgot to dig them up before we moved to Douglasville. Maybe the mountains of North Carolina where I spent my happiest days as a child. As long as I got to pass thru Dixie one more time before it was all over, it would all be good. I was sick and crippled, and couldn't help my family any other way beside the great insurance policy I had purchased before I got hammered. I had at least done one thing right. This I knew for certain, I was getting out of this hospital today. What was next, I didn't know for sure.

Let's Roll!

It gets more interesting almost immediately. Swing back by tomorrow.