A few months back, when we were in New Orleans for the winter, Dad and I saw a surgeon to see what could be done about his inguinal hernia. After a cat-scan he’s sitting in the doctor’s office on the bench for a visual inspection. The doctor’s obviously impressed (and not in a good way) by its large cantaloupe volume and appearance. He’s cradling it in his gloved hands the way one might hold a large, over-filled, red water balloon, or perhaps a newborn infant.
Dr. (concerned): It’s very large! Does it hurt?
Dad (bored): No. But it’s uncomfortable, and difficult to pee.
Dr.: Can you still push it back in?
Dad (looking down at it): Yes. I can push “the monster” back into its lair, if I work at it.
(He starts rustling around down there trying to push it back in. There’s the sound of water sloshing about, like young lovers wrestling in a hot waterbed.)
Dad (proudly): There!
Dr. (somewhat amazed): That’s good! Because you probably wouldn’t survive the surgery to repair it. And if the blood flow to the intestines gets cut-off, they’ll become strangulated or incarcerated and you’ll end up in the hospital in a real-bad-way, and you wouldn’t survive the surgery to fix that either.
Dad (resigned): Well, I guess I’ll have ta try to keep this “blivit” tucked in.
Dr.: Yes, and I’d avoid exercise that puts a lot of stress on it, like jogging.
Dad (eye brows up, hopeful): Do you hear that Randy, no more exercise!
Randy (to Dr., hurriedly): What about his weekly physical therapy at the gym, and using his walker instead of the wheelchair, like the P.T. says?
Dr. (to both of us): The P.T. knows how to deal with hernias, and using the walker is fine, and probably better for you.
Dr. (to dad): What, exactly, is a “blivit?”
Dad (dejected, grumbling, eyes down): It’s from World War II, for when ya have too much of somethin ya don’t want. It means having “three pounds a shit in a two ounce bag.”
Dr. (chuckling): Yes, literally so.