Doogie.

So, after a wonderous bout with kidney stones in March of 2007, my primary doctor (not the one to the left) decided that I had a hernia near my navel.  Thus, it was time to go under the knife. My doctor was a trip. He had, even before I gave him the knickname, “Doogie”, been called “Doogie” before. (kids, that was from a television show during my youth where a child the age of 16 was a medical doctor in the same hospital in which his father worked).

My surgeon was, evidently, 42 at the time, but looked like a post-facial-hair Neil Patrick Harris.  At any rate, he also seemed to have moonlighted (moonlit?) as a stand-up comic at a place we’ve never heard of.

After preparing me for surgery and having me brought into the OR (note: I have had enough abdominal surgeries in my life to have probably paid for someone to attend a year at medical school), he proceeded to introduce me to his surgical team.  Anestheologist, check.  Nurse, check.  Assistant, check.  Person who holds the book open, check.  Wait.  What?

Me: Um, Doogie, what book?

Doogie: The instruction manual, of course!

Me: Um, so how many of these have you done in your career?

Doogie: This is my first (gasp).  But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night. (raucous laughter from the team).

Now, it’s time to meet the silent partner.  The anestheologist.  This professional (ahem) proceeds to put the gas mask over my face.  Before he does it, I interrupt: I’m going to count back from 100 and make it to, like, 98, right?

Anesth: No.  I was thinking about mixing this up a bit.  Start at one and count up, okay?

Me: One.

The end.

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