Good Cop, Bad Cop.

When I was in college, I started to get bad sore throats. What would start off as something that seemed like a cold would become worse. My throat would continue to grow more painful and swollen. I was given antibiotics, first erythromycin then later cephalexin.

One morning I awoke early, with my throat so sore and swollen that I became concerned my airway would become compromised. I realized I would have trouble speaking, so I quickly scribbled a note to give to the doctors and nurses at the student health service. I rushed to the clinic and gave my note to a startled nurse. Soon after I was admitted, a nurse phoned the doctor on call, and he proscribed 30mg of prednisone, stat. They were difficult to swallow, but the six 5mg tablets were small, so the staff didn't have to resort to injection. My anxiety subsided about my airway being compromised.

Later, when I was feeling better, one of the doctors diagnosed that my tonsils were abcessed, so the infection was being walled off, which caused the antibiotics to be less than effective. He suggested I had two choices; one was to take prophylactic antibiotics every day, every winter, for the rest of my life. The other was to have a tonsillectomy. I chose the tonsilectomy. I think I was about 24 when this went down, somewhat late in life for a tonsillectomy.

I was scheduled and admitted into day surgery in St. Patrick's hospital in Missoula. I was NPO the night before, and given Demerol about 30 minutes before surgery. I think the general anesthetic was given IV.

I woke up coughing, and the nurses helped me sit up in bed. I wanted to be macho about my recovery, and go home ASAP, but I remember having to stay in the hospital a day longer than I expected. Other than that, eveything else was uneventful. I was told not to eat any rough foods for a certain time period following surgery.

Several days later I'm over at my friend Andrew Ward's place. I'm talking with him, listening to music, and drinking a tall boy beer. Suddenly I start bleeding from my mouth. At this point I begin to panic, as I have no idea how serious this is. Andrew and I get into his car and he literally rushes me to the hospital. When I say literally, I mean he was speeding and running red lights to get me there. I get into the ER, and the admitting nurse even seemed startled at my condition. A doctor had me sit down in a chair and wait for him in a side room. Andrew stays with me. Fortunately by this time the bleeding had slowed down, but I was glad to be in a hospital.

Presently a police officer walks in the room. He's not a security guard, he's a real cop, one of Missoula's finest. Though short, he looks down at me as I'm sitting in this chair.

He beginns to interogate me, as if I had committed some bizarre, exotic crime. I remember looking at Andrew, noting how he could see how bizarre the situation just became. Honestly, it's been too many years since this happened, so I don't even remember his questions. I tell him the truth. I have to wonder if he understood what the word "tonsillectomy" meant. Eventually he went away. Later I complained about his behavior to the doctor who acknowledged, not in so many words, that this cop was a real asshole.

From time to time you hear about cops who beat the shit out of diabetics who seem "drunk" to the cop, after my experience I'm more inclined to believe that could really happen. Maybe I got off lucky. Did my friend Andrew's presence as a witness inhibit this little puke from doing something worse to me?

I guess this is an example of how everything looks like a nail, if the only tool you have is a hammer. I'm sorry I didn't catch the name of the short Missoula cop, or I'd give the little asshole a shout-out by name...