Five Nights at Fredo's
Or: How I lost 5 lbs overnight with this one simple trick!
In this Episode, I relate the story of my all expense paid (by me) excursion to the Baptist Saint Tony’s (“BSA”) hospital1 in Amarillo, how I got there, and what happened next.
At the End of the Day — Part 1
Our story today starts on Tuesday, July 23, 2019, and then moves around a lot.
It was just after 10pm, on said Tuesday, July 23, 2019. I’m counting down from 10. Loaded up with Fentanyl, and other assorted painkillers, none of which worked, and about to go under for an emergency surgery. I’m on a surgical bed . . . I see a blue hospital apron, my stomach uncovered . . . a green / clear plastic anesthesiology mask gently cupped over my mouth, in a deep foggy haze. The Ob-Gyn (“Dr. G”) was there, along with two surgical assistants and an anesthesiologist. A bright overhead light was blaring at me . . . and burning right through my clear blue eyeballs.
As the countdown started, 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . ., I ran through the events of the last few days in my head. In case I made it, I thought, the sequence of events might explain how I got here. If I didn’t, well, I guess I could come back and haunt the people responsible.
In those last few seconds, before I went unconscious, here is what flashed through my head:
Ninety Years Young
Saturday, July 20, 2019 — My Grandmother’s 90th birthday party
102 degrees that morning, which is hot even for the Texas Panhandle. Yeah, but it’s a dry heat. Exclamation point!
We were hosting my Grandmother’s 90th birthday party later that day at the Methodist church up in Hansford county. The same church covered in our Episode “Return to Cinder” and the Episode before that — I forgot the name already. You know, the one about the church burning down, at midnight, in February, during a blizzard. I suppose if it were a Friends episode, it might be called “The one with the burning church”. But, since I never really liked Friends, it won’t be called that. I mean, I think the Friends writing staff never met an actual person. Just saying.
Anyway, we first discussed the church in this Episode:
The party was set for 2pm. However, for some reason (which will become clear below), my mom, Hannibal, insisted we all have pizza before the party at the Pizza Hut in Spearman . . . the only one in Hansford county, now that I think about it. “It’s Muff’s favorite”, Hannibal exclaimed. Explanation point! I’m pretty sure that’s not true, by the way. “Plus”, she exclaimed further, we can meet up with [my Aunties] JuJu and Mrs. Gomer”.
We had to be at the Pizza Hut by noon, which meant we had to leave #6 Accosted in Amarillo by 9am. Oh boy, Carbs in the heat, oh what fun it is . . .
. . . to Grandmother’s house we go . . . etc.
Anyway, my Grandmother wasn’t even meant to be there. Instead, we would bring back a couple takeout Meat-Lovers pizzas. I mean, in the 102F heat, what could go wrong with that?
We arrived at my Grandmother’s house about an hour before birthday party. She was in her bedroom, along with my Aunties, and was getting ready. When she saw us, she bolted out of her room, as if escaping, with a Tiara in hand (one that I had given her). “They”, she said, pointing to Mrs. Gomer, accusingly, “don’t want me to wear this Tiara. What do you think?”
My response: “Are you kidding me? How can you have a birthday party without a Tiara? And, it looks great on you .” That was the end of that discussion.
This narrative would not be complete if I failed to point out that my Grandmother is the reason I won in pageants. I would be asked “who do you most admire and why?” You can imagine my answer, it was genuine, and still true today. Also, I can wear a Tiara for maybe half an hour. At the birthday party, my Grandmother wore this particular Tiara for hours, as if it was not even there. It did not even shift. I call that impressive.
Funny story: a few years later, for fun, my Grandmother wore that Tiara in the back of our Batmobile, while waiving to people like she was the Queen. Many folks waived back! My Grandmother had the greatest sense of humor. We will talk about the Batmobile in a future Episode entitled “Wheels on the Benz Go Round and Off”.
The Party for the Ages
There must have been 200 folks who attended my Grandmother’s 90th birthday party that day to pay tribute.
It’s worth mentioning, every single person from our massive family was there, except for my brother(?), Myron, and his wife The Marm. Turns out, Myron was a lot closer than we knew at the time (see below).
My mom, Hannibal, and my sister(?) spent the whole party in the kitchen serving up food plates and never came out, not once, not a single time. Why, if they wanted to poison someone, that sure would be the place to do it. More on that later. In other words, in case you are missing the hint, that is what I think happened. To me. Though, I think it may have happened a few days later — thereby explaining my trip the hospital.
The party was going great. There was a video highlight reel playing on a large screen behind the stage, with background music, and a microphone stand. I told my dad, Fredo, to step up to the microphone and give a salute, since no one else seemed up to it. Fredo loves attention, so he veritably sprinted to the stage, knocking over tables in his haste. Well, that’s the way I envision it happened.
At the public conclusion of the party, we did a balloon release, while the carillons were playing in my Grandmother’s honor. But not before we were able to keyster a bunch of balloons and take my Nieces outside to release them, while those carillons were playing.
Here is that exact same scene:
Source: From author’s archive
The party was officially over.
It was now approaching 107F degrees of totally dry heat outside. Hot enough to melt asphalt. I discovered that when my stilettos sunk into it. “Don’t worry”, said Niece #2, “acetone will take that out.” How did she even know that? She was like 6 years old at the time.
An Evening at the El Vaquero
A quick wardrobe change and we were headed to the El Vaquero for a family-only dinner at El Vacquero. All 50+ of us.
This was the same El Vaquero where Dayton and his brothers played the grand opening ceremony in 1974. El Vaquero is Spanish for “The Cowboy”.
Here is the advertisement from the local paper. Love them donuts!
Source: From author’s archive
So, back to the family dinner at the El Vaquero. We had enchiladas pre-ordered. My sister(?) switched her plate with my uncle, because his plate only had two enchiladas, instead of the standard three. Anyway, she got a bad case of food poisoning (is there a good case?) the next day. Since the grand opening in 1974, this is the single only ever time anyone has had food poisoning from El Vaquero.
Hansford county is one of the few remaining dry counties in Texas. So, restaurants cannot serve hootch of any kind. We planned for that. In front of the saloon like backdrop — as seen above — we opened up a fully-chilled Rosé bar from the Batmobile trunk, poured out or drank our allotted soft-drinks, and replaced the contents with fully-chilled Rosé.
After dinner, we drove back to Amarillo, my two Nieces in the back seat. They were so excited to be riding with us that they talked (more like yelled) the whole 2 hour drive back home. Along the way, they played some punch-Bug. You know, where the first person to see a VW Bug punches the other player in the arm? My rules, you will not be surprised to hear, are different. When I see any car, or truck, or motorcycle, I give a punch . . . then pretend not to know the rules.
We ended the Saturday evening back in Amarillo, at #6 Accosted, with Hannibal and Fredo, where we played dominoes for a couple of hours.
All in all, at the end of this Night, it was a great day. My Grandmother loved every moment; we all did.
At the Beginning of the Day
Tuesday morning, July 23, 2019, around 9am.
The previous night, which I think was a Monday, Niece #2 stayed for a sleepover, which was common.
My sister(?) had developed that bad case of food-poising and was still holed up, ralphing. Niece #1 was at her friend’s house for a birthday party sleepover.
So that left Niece #2. At our own sleepover, we got pizza from the Pizza Planet, watched Gooseberries, Masha and the Bear and other stuff, like that hilarious Devil Baby Video. It’s a riot.
Then we told scary stories (“once upon a story”. . . ), with the required upturned flashlights. Before bedtime, we had a group prayer to thank God for the things [for which — ed.] we were thankful for. [Shut-up ed. — not ed.]
My Niece was happy for her feet. Yes, she is a stinker. In a good way.
The next morning I woke up to a crazy kind of pain. My Niece had already packed up her things and was brushing her teeth.
Remember, she is connected, so I think she knew there was something wrong before I did. She went downstairs to find Dolphyn and said “I think there’s something wrong with Bunny”. Bunny is, for some reason, what Hannibal and the rest they started calling me after my first Niece was born. I will come back to that in a future Episode entitled “Meet My Uncle Bun and My Other Uncle Bun”.
I called my sister (?) who is — or at least was — a nurse. She thought I might have appendicitis and sent me off to a health clinic way across town. I did that and went in, unable to walk unassisted.
I did not have appendicitis. I wish I did, as that can be treated laparoscopically. (I can neither pronounce nor spell “laparoscopically”, in case your asking.) The pain was getting worse. I remember the Doctor and the two nurses on duty looking at me; I could see the fear in their own eyes. Oh man, that can’t be good, I thought. They told me to get to the BSA emergency room, the closest hospital, and don’t linger. I really wanted them to add a “stat” after that, but I was in no position to argue.
Hannibal’s Jumping Beans
I called Hannibal on the way and arrived at the BSA parking lot 10 - 15 minutes later. The time was around 11am.
There are very few times that I have ever reflected that Hannibal was happy or excited. Most of the time, her only emotion is some kind of anger bordering on rage. Except anger is not really an emotion; it’s a reaction.
Today, at 11am, as we approached the emergency room at the BSA, what I saw was a really strange sight. Hannibal was literally jumping for joy. She was the most happy and excited I had ever seen her, a really strange sight.
Now, I don’t get thrown off by much. I have been thrown out of the car by Hannibal, after all. Confused by her, not often.
Today, at 11am, as we approached the ER, was different. I saw Hannibal, in a Chico’s black outfit, wildly jumping up and down, on her bad fake knees which she had installed just a year earlier. Waving her arms, like she was about to take flight, or block a field goal. Grinning ear to ear.
As much pain as I was in, this scene seemed to play out in slow motion.
ER I Am
We sat in the waiting room, or triage, for 8 hours. The pain was so extreme I thought I was going to pass out. It was dehabilitating (totally is a word).
I was finally admitted back to a private room, where the staff finally administered painkillers, and I answered a series of questions I don’t even remember answering. I was lying in one of those beds with wheels on the bottom. Then Hannibal’s head, creepy and jaw-juttingly, appeared over mine. Here eyes were more alive than ever, dancing. Usually her eyes are dead, like my brother (?), Myron’s. I imagine it probably similar to what a serial killer’s eyes look like, as their victim breathes their last breathe.
I don’t remember much from that day, except the pain. But I clearly remember this: Before being wheeled into surgery, my mom, Hannibal, said to me “oh you will probably need a hysterectomy”. . . (I didn’t , though I lost one ovary). . . “so, you know, you won’t be able to have kids” . . . (yeah, I know what a hysterectomy is). But, hey, thanks for the pep talk, there, Hannibal.
Even though I was in a haze with no sense of time even passing, I can still see the joy on her face, the right edge of her lip trembling as if about to crack a smile, and her cold blue eyeballs twinkling, in her garden of earthly delights. Yes, that is a reference to Hieronymus Bosch.
Source: Wikipedia
Hannibal is actually in this painting, one of the demons. You can see it if you look real close.
There she was, smiling, ear to ear. I was thinking that I had no idea what could be going on. I was in good shape. For years I would run a few miles a day. I traveled with ease, even through some third and fourth world countries and had never had an issue. I had annual medical exams and hadn’t missed one for over a decade.
The medical staff was helpful but concerned at the same time. Hannibal was the only person that was not. I thought how odd it was that the professionals that don’t know me, they looked like they had urgent concern. I am her daughter and there was not an ounce of compassion, just a happy look or like a mission accomplished look. I really think she wanted to laugh at me, but was able to restrain herself.
At The End of the Day — Part 2
I was counting down from 10, at the BSA hospital, rehashing in my head the last few days, hoping to conjure up how I got here.
Then I lost consciousness. When I woke up my stomach had been cut open, stitched back up, and a record breaking cyst had been removed.
They called it an Ovarian torsion, and it had just appeared that morning. The incision looked like a question mark. I found that appropriate, though, and somehow comforting. The days and weeks before, I was absolutely fine. No issues.
The doctor who did the actual surgery (Dr. G) showed me a picture of the cyst she had taken with her iPhone. It was like 12 - 13 inches in diameter, and she said weighed around 5 pounds. In my stupor, I thought it looked like Carrot-Top without the wig.
I had to laugh, though, because I was envisioning the surgical team aping it up while posing for selfies. Or, flinging both arms straight up in the air and yelling “score!”. You get the picture.
Well, I hope that happened. I mean, that’s what I would have done.
Ovarian torsions, as it turns out, are cysts that flip over, trapping blood flow. The longer they are left unattended, the bigger and worse they get. They can also rupture, in which case it’s curtains.
So, I have to ask myself, is that what they wanted? Curtains?
By the way, here’s another clue for you all — my sister’s(?) husband — Dr. Belkie — is a doctor with admitting privileges at that hospital, and his best friend is a gynecologist. My sister, the nurse, knew I was going to this exact hospital at the exact time. Not one of these so-called friends tried to call to move the system along and get me the emergency surgery I needed to save my life.
Before I finish this part of the story, I want to give credit to Dr. G and the surgical team. They were excellent. Dr. G happened to be on duty at the hospital that day, and was scheduled to fly out of town the next day. I thank my lucky stars she was there. It is not a stretch to say she probably saved my life.
At the Beginning of the Next Day
The next morning, I woke up on yet another hospital bed.
My sister(?) — the nurse — dropped off donuts for the nurses on the floor. She also seemed absolutely distressed. Rightfully so, their adorable and beloved puppy, named Pixie, had gone into the hospital the same day I did. Her kidneys were failing. Pixie was from a reputable breeder so this was really from out of no where. She was a very well taken care of puppy, and she was a delight.
This was on Wednesday and our oldest niece’s birthday was approaching on Saturday. I felt terrible for them.
My dad, Fredo, visited and I asked him not to tell anyone. I think we all know that didn’t happen. Not long after, I was getting calls from people I hadn’t heard from in years. Fredo seemed chipper, for some reason. He is always happy to call around with the latest tea.
I was in the hospital recovering for two days and got released on Thurdsay.
Thankfully, Dolphyn did not leave. Not once. Except to go to the commissary, where it turns out the pizza is not too bad. On one of those trips, however, he saw Hannibal sleeping in the waiting area near my room. She was asleep and did not see Dolphyn. Why was she there? Possibly for an opportunity. I have no idea, but I can guess pretty good.
Where’s Myron
I told you that Myron, while not at my Grandmother’s birthay, was closer than everyone knew.
A year or so later, I was going through IP data on a business website we [to which - ed.] both had access to. [Shut-up ed. - ed.] Oh yeah, word to the wise, don’t go into business with psychopaths or other assorted narcissists. I reckon Myron stole from me, and others, 7 figures (all of which to the left of the decimal point).
So, where was Myron, at 9am, on July 20, 2019, when we all packed up to head to the Pizza Hut? Myron was sitting in the parking lot of the funeral home, a few miles from #6 Accosted, and right next to the local prison.
The Epiloger
So, to recapitulate, the timeline in chronological order is as follows:
July, 20 — My Grandmother’s 90th birthday party; Myron parked at the prison funeral home
July 21 — My sister(?) get’s food poisoning — ha ha
July 22 — Night of, sleepover with Niece #2
July 23 — Hospital for me; and for my sister’s dog Pixie
July 24 — More hospital, Hannibal oddly and furtively lurking outside my hospital room
July 25 — Released; Hannibal says “Fredo thinks I killed Pixie”; no one was askin’
July 26 — Pixie, my sister’s dog dies; Niece #1’s birthday; we see a hummingbird at my sister’s(?) house. The first one I had ever seen in Amarillo. Dr. Belkie, needless to say, didn’t believe me and asked if it was a big wasp instead. Yeah, I think I know a hummingbird when I see one.
July 28 — I leave Amarillo, still bandaged up. I had a gut feeling to make myself scarce.
I understand cysts can happen, and that emergency surgeries happen too. However, when I look at the time line of events set out in summary form, I see a different picture. If it had only been the surgery, I would conclude otherwise. However, the combination of me waking up in abject pain, Pixie getting sick on the same day, and then dying, my sister(?) getting food poisoning, Myron actually being in Amarillo (likely to pilfer through files and computers), I believe they were trying to get rid of me.
I was in Amarillo for 7 days during this trip, for two of which I was in the hospital.
The rest is how I spent Five Nights at Fredos.
Sometimes referred to as the “horse pistol”, which I reckon is a whole lot more accurate, for no actual reason cited.