Plus 3

Couldn't record on Day 2, guys.  Sorry about that.  So I'm making up for it a bit by posting 3 Casts today.  Here is the Transcript for today.  Keep in mind that despite the tone for the dramatic effect I Still have absolute confidence, respect, and appreciation for my Dr.

 

Greetings, young gents, it’s Papa 4 Da Boys, your post-op cynic, cursing my guitar through the fog of life’s latest indignity. Today, I’m not strumming from Daegu’s streets but from the prison of my own dim-lit skull, three days post-cataract surgery, still blind as a bat in the eye they swore they’d fix. 

 

The doctors, with their smug scalpels and sterile smiles, promised clarity; instead, I’m chained to my Lounge Chair, functionally blind, stewing in a haze that clears slower than a bureaucrat’s conscience.

 

For you lads learning to think like men, not gullible sheep, this is a lesson in the medical world’s grand promises and the slow, bruising truth of recovery. Seven minutes, dripping with sarcasm sharper than a surgeon’s blade. Let’s limp through this farce.

 

 

Three days ago, they pried open my eye, scraped out the cloudy lens, and popped in a plastic imposter, assuring me I’d see the world anew.  Anew, they said! As if I’d spot a sparrow’s feather from a mile off. Instead, my eye’s a blurry soup, like peering through a Monsoon season fog after a bender. The surgeon’s handiwork, I’m told, was a “success,” but success feels like a beating—my eye battered, swollen, and sulking, healing at the pace of a snail with a grudge. 

 

They didn’t mention this in the glossy pamphlet, did they? No, it was all “quick recovery, minimal discomfort,” not “brace for days of squinting like a mole in daylight.” Functional blindness, lads—that’s the sentence. Imprisoned at home, another day lost to this foggy cage, unable to read, drive, or even dodge the furniture without cursing. 

 

I tripped over a chair yesterday; it had the nerve to look smug.  In my defense it was a very fast moving chair…. Like the fast moving Church that I inadvertantly backed my car into a few years back.

 

The doctors, those wizards of optimism, didn’t prepare me for this. “Three days, maybe a week, No More than a Month or Two” they chirped, glossing over the bit where my eye took a thrashing during their “routine” procedure. Routine for them, maybe, sitting pretty in their scrubs, while I’m here counting ceiling cracks through one compromised eye that can be corrected with glasses, but the glasses no longer fit because they have to straddle the huge protective gear over my post-operative eye. It’s getting better, they claim, but “slowly” is the operative word, like a promise from a lover who’s already left town.

 

The medical system, oh, what a circus! They sell you visions of instant clarity, but the fine print—buried under jargon like “post-op edema” or “corneal haze”—whispers of weeks, not days, of groping through the blur. 

 

I asked for clarity; they gave me drops, a shield to tape over my eye, and a list of don’ts longer than my band’s repertoire. No bending, no lifting, no rubbing the eye—might as well lock me in a monastery. And the kicker? “Be patient,” they say, as if patience grows on trees while you’re trapped in a haze, wondering if you’ll ever see a star again.

 

Young thinkers, here’s the rub: medicine’s a gamble, and doctors are salesmen in white coats, peddling hope with a side of disclaimers.  They don’t tell you the surgery’s a brawl, leaving your eye bruised and sulky, or that recovery’s a slog through a fog you can’t punch through. Think like men: question their rosy promises, brace for the worst, and laugh at the absurdity of trusting a scalpel to fix your soul’s window. 

 

I trusted my music once to fix my woes; it didn’t, but at least it made noise. So, I sit, one-eyed, plotting my escape from this domestic dungeon, strumming until the blur clears or I go mad—whichever comes first.

 

And so, Papa 4 Da Boys slinks off, drumming a dirge for my battered eye. Young men, doubt the doctors, endure the haze, and keep your drum louder than your despair. 

 

Music by Pufino