Trail Cam Glam

So yeah, following tremendous trains/strains of thought and endless categorization, I’ve elevated to the top of your Pre-Op List… a spankin’ new trail camera!

Oh, you’re not facing surgery (that you know of) in the immediate future? Well, file the info away for future use; it’s inexpensive and just might come in handy later.

Per the shopping spree, there’s no need for a video camera—unless you’re of the totally vain variety, in which case you may also desire a gym membership, delineated later. What you’re seeking is a simple, motion-activated camera that snaps excellent color photos at a mere handful of feet.

Got it? OK. Now, think of a spot deep enough in the woods to be well away from any prying eyes. ANY prying eyes. Don’t concern yourself about game trails, bedding areas, food/water sources or anything else to do with hunting.

(After all, you’re the one about to be cut on, not some hapless hog or buck!)

Pick a tree, any tree, as long as you can mount the camera just below belt high and have roughly 5 feet in front of the lens to get the high-quality photos required.

Got it hung, hopefully with new batteries in place?

Good. Now, pose just in front to make sure it’s striking your beauty roughly from navel to knees—then do a 180, unbuckle and drop ’em boxers and all to your ankles, and touch your toes.

Taking into consideration that you likely haven’t completed said task since you were 13 years of age, we’ll adjust by going fingertips to mid-shin.

Is your mind’s eye seeing what the camera is? Then wiggle it. Again, assuming you remember how and are able to. This motion (?) should send the camera into a veritable frenzy of activity, which is necessary to getting just the right shot.

And it’s while, after downloading, you’re sorting through all those photos that you may want to hook up with your local gym. If you’re not liking what you’re seeing, quite possibly a few million squats are in order. Conversely, if you’re thinking you’re Playgirl material, go for the video…

(Whatever you decide, don’t seek input from your wife…)

In the end, upon reaching total satisfaction, take THE single image you’re BEST pleased with—and run off 100 copies.

Got ’em? From here, two days before entering the hospital, mosey on down there and start handing out those images to everybody who even LOOKS like a doctor, nurse, tech, lab assistant, latrine scrubber, floor sweeper, food tray toter or hall loafer.

And tell them this: “You’re going to be looking at this thing for the next several days, so go ahead and wrap your mind around it so that nobody’s surprised!”

You think I’m kidding, don’t you?

Remember your 80-year-old Uncle Leroy on your mommer’s side? The one who frequently asked, “Wanta see my scar?” just before unbuckling and dropping? At the family reunion?

Yeah, Leroy’s been there and done that; he strolled those hospital halls. Before, alas, trail cameras.

It’s simply a fact of life, fellas, that we can put men on the moon and in and out of an orbiting space station at will, but there’s never been an American clothes designer who could hide your butt via hospital gown!

So what I’m a’trying’ to get across to you is embrace it! Be proud! Don’t walk around with an IV tree in one hand and a scrap of backdoor gown in the other, hopelessly trying to hide at least one cheek!

Try that and nurses will call the leafblower dude inside and have him send a blast right up your backside. He’ll come into the lobby downstairs, right by that box.

Which box, you ask? The one with  “YOUR DIGNITY HERE” stenciled across the front.

What you gotta remember is that this is an everyday 12-hour shift for hospital staffs. They’ve seen better and worse and couldn’t care less. What they’re truly interested in seeing is you… healed.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’ve just been through all this. And it ain’t nearly as funny as I attempt to make it out to be. It’s just that my daughter-in-law Ally is less than a month from getting her registered nurse pin, and before entering the hospital, I decided I was going to treat everybody there the way I want her treated.

I refuse to recall the really bad portions, and there were definitely some of them; but I laughed with staff every day, and they at me.

Also, I refuse to believe that a man could receive better care than that provided by Doctor Ray King and the folks at University Hospital in Augusta. Especially a trio of nurses—Amanda, James and Ruth—who fought for me when, for the first time in my life, I was unable to fight for myself.

If you peruse this magazine, it may dawn on you how far I’ve come since that May 10 surgery, when Dr. King removed a foot or so of something I could live without but probably not with!

But you know me; there’s gotta be that ONE episode…

So the morning of May 11th, I wake up feeling as if I’d spent the night in a churning cement mixer.  Or maybe a gator finally DID get me—right below the navel. There’s a guy entering the room, wearing scrubs, a turban and a huge smile. Resident doctor. Had watched the operation.

“I got to tell you, man, you’re beautiful on the inside. Looked just like a medical chart.”

I’m not sure what that exactly means—but there ain’t no hidin’ it!