Memoir of a Moron

By

William D. Dannenmaier

There are only two requirements for qualifying as a moron medically, but they aren’t that easy to satisfy. I believe I succeeded in both. First, you must conceal from your family or anyone who might care about you any awareness that you may have a serious medical problem. Second, when you are finally forced to seek medical advice, enter on a breezy, cheerful, note and let the doctor find out how ill you are. I believe I qualified on both.

I thought it was fortunate that, on the morning of August 30,^th, I was home alone. I had not been feeling well for two or three weeks and there was some work that needed to be done. What better time for physical labor than when my bride was elsewhere and could not be looking over my shoulder asking if it wasn’t time to stop?

Specifically, I needed to put a concrete patch in my driveway in a spot that recent, heavy, rains had washed clear of gravel. I had an eighty pound sack of concrete in my shed awaiting this job. All I needed to do was cut a patch of fence wire to fit the gully, mix, pour and smooth the concrete.

I was surprised to run short of breath in cutting and fitting the wire, but sat down for a minute to recover. Then I discovered I had purchased cement rather than concrete. This meant I had to add about twenty pounds of gravel to the cement before mixing in the water and pouring. Every step seemed to take more energy than I had that morning, but I completed all and had reached the point where I tromped loose gravel on top of my newly poured concrete when a tremendous pain shot up through my chest, spreading to my back and then my arms. Even my teeth hurt. I sat down to give the pain time to go away and think things over. This took almost an hour.

I couldn’t drive. If I telephoned Dr. Smith he would insist on a hospital visit, which I assumed would take two or three days, but I had to pick up my 20 year old son, Andrew, at his college that Saturday. If I told my bride, she would telephone Smith with the same results. The thoughtful solution, at the moronic level, was to conceal and mislead. Tell my bride nothing. Tell my doctor, whom I trusted, only partial truths. I telephoned Dr. Smith’s office and avoided him completely. I told the receptionist that Dr. Smith had been wanting me to come in for a complete physical for the past few years – which was true. When we settled on a date, September 12^th, I added, “By the way, I’ve had a few chest pains recently; you might want to note that in the record.”

A good week followed, although I always seemed to be short of breath as I cut the grass and cleaned the garden. As the twelfth approached, I noticed a need for a bit more concrete in one spot so I opened a second sack, taking out what I figured I needed. Again, I added rocks, water, mixed and poured. Again that darned chest and back pain, but this time Sheila was home and watching.

Discussion followed. Sheila wanted to take me to the hospital but settled on permitting Dr. Smith, whom I had known for fourteen years and trusted, to decide. According to my bride, Dr. Smith said, “Take him to the ER at Baptist Hospital.”

From that point on, my memory is spotty. I remember nothing of the ride to the hospital, although I do remember having trouble finding my insurance cards when I arrived and being told I didn’t need them. Surgery was scheduled for the first thing in the morning (Sheila claims I was the first one taken in to surgery and the last one out.). I spent a little less than a week in the intensive care unit and more than another week in the pulmonary/cardiology wing after the time in intensive care. While I got to know many of the nurses and technicians working my case, I only remember the last few staff members who cared for me. Other events I remember distinctly included taking off all the wires (this was painful) to go to the bathroom by myself because no one would help me – in fact they tried to stop me. People coming and going and leaving my room door open, which irritated me – I took off the wires again to close the doors when no one was there. Listening to the nurses and technicians discuss the needs of all the wires.

It was this last eavesdropping which clarified my situation to me. Several weeks earlier I had read a short story in which a distinguished man and two young girls were perpetuating a swindle to steal all available money in a small town. Another stranger to the town - the town was full of strangers that day – managed to foil the plot and save the town. I was in an analogous situation, a distinguished young man and two young women stooping to technology to rob a town! I could only help by keeping them from wiring me up again. In the story the sheriff finally appeared and, sure enough, soon enough hospital security, the sheriff in my mind, was in my room. Instead of arresting the trio however, he simply talked to them and left. I tried to explain to the young man that he was supposed to be the bad guy and I the good guy and that he was messing things up. As in the story I read, I also tried to talk the girls, Lisa, whom I called Spiky, and Dee, out of their life of crime. The entire play was being mismanaged. Worse yet, two other girls, Michelle and Karla, showed up, this was two girls too many. Then Rachel, a slightly older lady arrived. This was all wrong.

Anyway, they replaced my wiring, one of them, I suspected Spiky, seemed to be nailing the wires into my flesh while Dee had wonderfully soft hands and was extremely calming as she smoothed new patches into place. Rachael had a quiet was of talking that was also calming, but perhaps not enough so.

Sheila said that when she arrived with me initially she was told that there were strict visiting hours for spouses, she could not stay. At five the following morning she received a telephone call requesting that she come and spend the day with me as soon as possible. Later this included night hours. Visiting hours were eliminated for her, but I don’t know why. Must be her personality.

My time in the hospital was extended to a bit over two weeks, and all of these people and I ended up on reasonably good terms as I came to see and appreciate their skills and their attitudes. Of course, none of them ever had the faintest idea what was going through my mind - that criminal conspiracy I was stopping - during all of their efforts to get me to obey the rules.

One thing one must admire about the medical profession however, is their ability to have a diagnostic term for every situation. Before leaving and during a discussion with Mike Troxler, who might have been the distinguished “criminal” in my earlier understanding, I asked if they had a term for people like me and he said, “Yes. You are a stubborn old fart.”