harryhero

Harry Hero is a collaborative family writing project. He began as typing practice for author #6 in the mid-seventies. Authors M, 1, 4, 5, 7, spontaneously and sarcastically contributed until Harry took on a life and momentum of his own. He was reborn as a Christmas project in the early nineties and again as a web project in the new millennium. Once more Harry has risen from near tragic and certain literary deaths to live again as blog practice. Bulwer-Lytton judges take note.

About Me

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It seems I have suffered and survived a few insults and injuries to my cranium, thus my memory does not lend itself to one seamless life I could call my own. Instead, my life seems to be one dim episode after another documented by a random and rather odd conglomeration of assorted biographers who, for some bizarre reason, seem compelled to document my trials as if I were a remarkable hero. Heroism can take many forms. Perhaps it is finding fresh strawberries in November for the Manhattan socialite's crepes as she breaks her fast. Perhaps it is found in a multitude of skills, lucky breaks and death defying feats. It may be true that piloting my faithful rig, Betsy, through the Canadian Rockies is not for the weak of spirit, mind or body; I claim no special talents other than devoted love and endless hope. Love of a good truck, a good cup coffee and a good adventure. Hope of self-actualization and...Sophie? If you desire a chronological –not necessarily logical- plotline begin reading at the January 26 2006 post - The Not So Constant Gardener - and follow subsequent postings to present day.

Blog Archive

Friday, February 10, 2006

Pre-op assessment

When Nurse Tenderlove returned with the loaded syringe she was herding yet another sheepish support staff member who was bleating apologetically. “I think Patsy and Betty are on their coffee break…I…I…don’t know this patient,….I…I can’t…and I have to….”

“I do not care to hear excuses!” Nurse Tenderlove glared at the muttonhead. “Just do as the Doctor orders and do it now!”

Dr. Maybe made appreciative googoo eyes at Nurse Tenderlove and turned to the nervous ninny. “Expose his gluteus maximus,” he demanded, pulling his thin wet lips so tightly over his yellow teeth that each word was squeezed out through his bulbous nose. She stared numbly at the agitated and hairy man in the bed but did not move. “His rear end!, snorted Dr. Maybe. “His behind!”

“Oh,” she smiled weakly, then discreetly revealed the upper outer quadrant of Harry’s taut tush. Dr. Maybe plunged the syringe into Harry’s muscle without hesitation.

“This drug will begin to take effect in ten minutes. The security guards will be here soon. When you have their assistance, prepare him for cranial surgery. Do you understand?”

She nodded meekly as Dr. Maybe stormed from the room, then spun on his heels and hovered like a hurricane in freeze frame. “Shave and prep his toes as well,” he sneered and whirled away.

Harry heard the disappearing devilish Dr. Maybe barking an order to page the neuro and ortho surgeons. A sickening lethargy washed over Harry and he was pain free as he drifted into a deep sleep. The stereophonic hatred of Nurse Tenderlove’s and Dr. Maybe’s remote laughter echoed in his anesthetized ears.
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