"I'm 98 years old. What do you think about that?!"
"I think that's pretty swell!" I smile. "I bet you've got a lot of great stories to tell."
"Oh, plenty, plenty," he chortles, his thin red lips sliding over his toothless gums, gray eyes pinched with self-satisfied glee.
"Well, tell me about the medical conditions you've beaten back all these years."
The withered Mr. Jones launches into tales of "the sugar," "the pressure," "the nerves," "the cholesterol," "the prostate," "the 'monia" and "the tumor." He rattles off his previous surgical history, deftly lists his meds and doses like a contestant on a high-stakes game-show. His mental clarity rivals that of the host.
He jokes as we attach the EKG leads and bp cuff, doesn't miss a beat as we place the IV's and art line. He guffaws as he models his blue bouffant. He winks often and reaches out to squeeze my hand frequently, as if our roles were reversed, he reassuring me.
The time soon comes to whisk off to the OR. From my place at his side, I turn to take the break off the bed.
And suddenly feel something unmistakable. And surprising. In that nebulous gluteal - or shall we say goose-ial - region.
I manage to maintain my composure as we wheel away, catching up his chart from the IV cart. At the very back, marked with a purple tab, is a caution flag: Inappropriate Behavior.
Mr. Jones throws me a sly wink just before we push the propofol.
"I think that's pretty swell!" I smile. "I bet you've got a lot of great stories to tell."
"Oh, plenty, plenty," he chortles, his thin red lips sliding over his toothless gums, gray eyes pinched with self-satisfied glee.
"Well, tell me about the medical conditions you've beaten back all these years."
The withered Mr. Jones launches into tales of "the sugar," "the pressure," "the nerves," "the cholesterol," "the prostate," "the 'monia" and "the tumor." He rattles off his previous surgical history, deftly lists his meds and doses like a contestant on a high-stakes game-show. His mental clarity rivals that of the host.
He jokes as we attach the EKG leads and bp cuff, doesn't miss a beat as we place the IV's and art line. He guffaws as he models his blue bouffant. He winks often and reaches out to squeeze my hand frequently, as if our roles were reversed, he reassuring me.
The time soon comes to whisk off to the OR. From my place at his side, I turn to take the break off the bed.
And suddenly feel something unmistakable. And surprising. In that nebulous gluteal - or shall we say goose-ial - region.
I manage to maintain my composure as we wheel away, catching up his chart from the IV cart. At the very back, marked with a purple tab, is a caution flag: Inappropriate Behavior.
Mr. Jones throws me a sly wink just before we push the propofol.
