If any of y’all noticed the absence of my column in the past few weeks, I’ve got to wonder what you thought might’ve happened to me. No, I wasn’t arrested for Drunk & Disorderly at SXSW, and I wasn’t at the state capitol giving my staunch opinion of allowing hyper-hormonal college co-eds to pack heat on campus. No, sir, my column was on short hiatus due to my recent back surgery and my subsequent drug-befriended recovery period. Luckily, I am able to sit at my desk and hack away at this keyboard that inexplicably now has blurry keys. Hmm?

Now, I hope y’all weren’t expecting me to tell some wild hospital stories about seeing a bright light and meeting angels or dead people. Nope, that didn’t happen as far as I know of, and the only near-death experience occurred while driving in Austin traffic on the way to the hospital. There was a lot of stuff that occurred for hours shortly after that nice anesthesiologist and I discussed different anesthetic cocktails in our respective workplaces, and the next thing I remember was being in recovery hooked up to several IV lines and peeing into a bag. My wife was allegedly there, and she informed me that my first words were “I’m still on this side of the dirt.”

Surgery went fine, and I had to spend the next 4 days in the hospital where I was supplied with two of the greatest things of modern medicine:  a personal pain-relief injection pump and a bedside urinal. Between these two glorious items, I was able to take wild adventures and never leave my bed.

First of all, I want to compliment just about all the doctors and staff at the hospital. They were all very kind and thoroughly professional. I don’t quite understand how you are supposed to get doctor-ordered rest when nurses are taking your vitals and blood samples all night long, but thanks to my new friend with the magic button, I was back asleep within seconds of my late-night evaluations. Oh, modern medicine has come a long way over the years, but one thing that never seems to change about hospitals is there isn’t a soul on staff who knows anything about good cooking.

I spent several days at a beautiful, modern hospital up in Lakeway, but the only tasty food I ate was the French toast. I ordered a turkey sandwich one night, and it was as bland as a PBS documentary. The hamburger I ordered the next day was overcooked and was as tough as bull hide. Even a chef salad I sampled was flavorless. I have to wonder where the hospital acquired this so-called chef; The Ronald McDonald Culinary Institute? If it wasn’t for Jell-o and a smuggled-in Whataburger, I might’ve been begging for someone to pull the plug.

Before I was able to get discharged from the hospital, I was required to, umm, have my own discharge, if you know what I mean. There I was in a hospital bed, no decent vittles in my gut except for some French toast and a contraband burger with extra jalapenos, and the doctor said I can’t leave without having a BM. It’s bad enough that the pain meds tend to cause constipation, and now I have pass stool through a colon that was empty as a college library during spring break. Oh, the agony!

Once again, modern medicine stepped up with a few concoctions that oiled the hinges and opened the barn door, allowing me to get home that evening. Although my appetite is still far from normal, I am able to eat food with spices and flavor. Perhaps some take-out from my favorite Mexican restaurant will help get my GI tract back in order, and soon I will be able to get off these pain meds and resume my normal afternoon rituals out on the Crow’s Nest.  

Cowboy and vet tech Clint Younts will soon be back at his haunts in north Hays County, eating Mexican food and imbibing in other specialties of the restaurants.

crowsnest78610@yahoo.com