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Bonnie

Ons beleef voorwaar nie `n aangename tyd nie. Die afgelope week of drie loop die ou Sekelman knaend op ons spoor. Neem ons eers afskeid van Mia wat vir baie jare die kleinsus in die gesin was na ons ander mensekinders die huis verlaat het. Toe groet ons ons ouboet Dirk, en nou neem ons afskeid van ons geliefde Bonnie.

Die twee hondekinders het oral saam met ons gaan vakansie hou. Kleinsus en Ousus. Bonna was veral lief vir die see, maar eintlik was sy maar net mal oor saamry. Maak nie saak waarheen gery word nie, as die wiele draai wou sy saam.

Saam met Ma en Pa by die see, met Mia in die rugsak omdat haar been seer was en sy nie vêr kon loop nie.

Sy was lief vir water, of dit nou n getypoel of stortreën was, as dit nat was moes sy daarin speel, maar nooit in die  swembad nie, daarvoor was sy te veel van n lady, n waardige, afsydige Skotse lady.

Na 14 jaar saam met ons, het kanker haar kom wegvat. Sy was gedaan en die veearts het haar uit haar pyn verlos.

Ons mis jou ou Bon met jou ronde lyfie en kordaat houding. Jy was uniek, jy was dierbaar. Mooiloop ou honne. Dit was goed om jou te geken het.

(Continue reading from previous post)

The next morning the healthy dead man was wheeled off to the operating theatre. While waiting in line for his turn to be poked at form the outside and spied on from the inside, he was informed that a small monitor would be implanted under his skin somewhere over his heart. This gave rise to fierce betting between two theatre nurses over the shivering body of our zombie under the theatre lights, as to where exactly the doctor was going to do the implant. Our brave Mr Reg Shoe suggested they each make a cross with a pen on where they thought the implant should be done.

When the doctor arrived and boldly inserted the device, the male nurse joyfully shouted ‘I won. You owe me a decent meal at a decent restaurant!’ The doctor was not impressed, but high-fived the winner and moved to the nether regions of my recently-back-from-the-dead companion.

The anaesthetist explained to my zombie that he was not going to put him to sleep, but that he was going to give him a little shot of some good stuff to make him happy and relaxed so he could enjoy the show of his insides on the monitor. A camera probe was inserted in an artery in his thigh and moved all the way to his heart where the doctor joyfully pointed out to his happy patient that the repair work to the inlet and outlet manifolds of the pump during the previous bypass operation was still in mint condition and could thus not have been the reason for his cardiac arrest this time. He pointed to a small, crooked artery in between the previously repaired ones and said that that one was blocked, and it could have been the culprit giving the surgeon the fright of his life. And then the cardiologist abruptly left the theatre and stayed away for a very long time, which caused some panic in the mind of the living dead on the operating table.

When the doctor casually returned a while later, he said the artery was too small and crooked to put a stens in and with that he removed his probe, stitched up the thigh and left, never to be seen again by me or my Mr Reg Shoe, not even when we were discharged from the hospital the next day.

After the operation, the anaesthetists told us that, while the doctor was moving his probe upwards through the belly of the beast, so to speak, he looked at the area where my moron said the original pain came from. And said he, the doctor had some good news and some bad news. The bad news was that one of the ribs will have to be removed, the good news was that they could create a new wife for him from the rib. In unison, me and my zombie cried NO THANK YOU! We can barely handle one of them. We do not want an extra one.

When the good wife came by we mentioned to her the proposition that was made to us by the doctor. Contrary to expectations the good wife was elated, provided that the new wife took over cooking, cleaning and sex. With that the Zombie almost shot out of bed to go tell the doctor to proceed with the operation.  I calmed him down and pointed out to him that, being a zombie, and an old one at that, we could expect some vital parts of his body to start falling off in the foreseeable future. Considering such a prospect, we decided not to accept the generous offer because a clean house was very much overrated in any case.

And now we are back home. We hit the ground running and haven’t stopped since. The work will not wait for you to die, said my moron réanimé who is grudgingly sporting his original pain in the side for which he seeked medical help and was, at phenomenal cost, rewarded with a score of new pains added for his trouble. He is not a happy man, but being sad will not make it go away, he says.

If he was a cat, I am sure he’d by now be close to, or living his 9th and final life. And I was just beginning to like the moron.

And so, stuffed with painkillers (including the green FECO variety), he is happily trotting along to the finishing line. I, the famous Red Cap will keep you posted on our beloved Mr R Shoe’s hazy progress down the hill to oblivion.

 

“When we believe what we think, when we take our thinking to be reality, we will suffer.”

Adyashanti: Falling into Grace

Rise of the Zombie

Duitsland 2014

Rise of the Zombie
And so, he died on us, just like that, the bloody moron. The good Doctor was still poking around inside of him when his heart stopped. No goodbye, au revoir, addio, Auf Wiedersehen, proschhay or even a simple koebaai came from his lips. He just left … for about 20 seconds … twice, and then he was resurrected by a very frantic surgeon, and my moron joined the ranks of, what the French calls; the “réanimés”.
And now I, the very famous Red Cap, is burdened not only with a moron, but by a Zombie moron (or is it a moron Zombie?). I will tell you how it came to pass.
Some time ago he had his gall bladder removed. It did not go well. He almost died. Most people involved believed that he would not make it at the time. Long story, but he did make it. And soon after that incident he started to experience a chronic pain in his right side just below the last short rib. The doctors speculated, poked, manipulated, scanned, X-rayed and sonared him from all sides, but to no avail.
Finding nothing from the outside, one good doctor (our eventual reanimator) decided to invade. A date and time was set for colonoscopy and gastroscopy procedures to be done. His oesophagus, stomach, duodenum, ilium, jejunum, colon and caecum were washed clean to shine forth like the pink marble floors of the Tia Mahal. And in this shining condition he was wheeled into the theatre where the good doctor and his killer anaesthetist awaited him. They sedated him and unceremoniously pushed a flexible rod down his throat and another one of the same up his you-know-what, and that’s when his heart stopped.
The brave doctors did battle for less than halve a minute before they succeeded in reviving the poor sod twice. He was wheeled out of the theatre and sent off post haste to the nearest decent hospital down the road where a cardiologist was alerted of the imminent arrival of a troubled heart attached to a very troubled old man.
Coming too, and then being told of his short visit to eternity, his only comment was that any normal, decent man’s heart would stop if he found himself with a steel rod down his throat and a hose pipe up his arse. He can be such a crude son of a bitch. He then lamented at length about the lack of ringing bells, singing angels, a white light and /or a loving welcoming delegation dressed in brilliant white robes on the other side. “How imprudent can you get?” he asked indignantly.
I coughed warningly and said, “Shall we call you Reginald Shoe from now on sir?” in a castigating tone of voice. Of course, I was alluding to Reg Shoe the zombie in Terry Pratchett’s’ Discworld series. If one rants like a child, you will be treated like a child.
On arrival at the hospital he was admitted to an ordinary ward for un-well people. The cardiologist’s runner girl rocked up with a tablet in hand and fired a lot of questions at our zombie who did not comprehend a word she was saying. His wife took over and answered all the questions which was promptly and efficiently punched into the tabled before the runner girl took off again. Next came the Ward Sister with about ten pages of questions that needed to be answered by the patient before he could be admitted to the hospital. The questions turned out to be the exact same questions the runner girl just fired at our perplexed zombie.
With the questionnaire completed the Sister wandered off, and out of the blue another Sister appeared on the scene with a clipboard in hand. This one looked decidedly more like a cleaning girl than a proper Ward Sister. She started to ask the same questions the other two interrogators threw at our newly reanimated, and now totally flabbergasted Mr Reg Shoe. The irony was that the new inquisitor could not comprehend the answers given to her and so she kept repeating the questions over and over, and although the real Ward Sister told her that the admission papers have been completed and the more she referred her to the file, the more she kept on repeating the questions.
This madness continued for a while when suddenly the Reanimator doctor stormed into the ward foaming at the mouth and wanting to know what the hell his Promethean (or réanimé) was doing in this ward. He should be in intensive care, he shouted. And off they sped with the poor fool down the passage to the nearest ICU ward.
But on arrival at the ICU he was refused entrance, citing a shortage of beds as reason. Off they wheeled him again, down the passage and into a lift to the next ICU where he was again refused admission on the same grounds as at the previous ICU, although we were standing right next to a pristine clean and obviously empty bed. A heated argument erupted between the bed pushers and the Ward Sister re the empty bed reserved for very sick people and the seemingly healthy but somewhat bewildered patient with the rosy cheeks who could not possibly need intensive care.
Enter stage from the right came our little runner girl, adding her shrill soprano voice to the fray. Out shouting the rest of the lot, she won the day with threats of hell-fire and brimstone, and the zombie was transferred to the empty bed, hooked up to a monitor with angry flashing lights that went beep-boop-beep.
There he was, sitting up in bed and smiling his moron smile at everybody while his good wife sat crying in the corridor. At length, the runner girl showed up again and explained to the good wife that the cardiologist wanted permission from the patient to invade his body … again. He wanted to enter the engine room and more specific, the pumping department. (Thank the small gods for small mercies, it was not the hose-pipe-from-the-bottom kind of invasion again!) The doctor felt that an angiogram was urgently called for at this stage.
After much deliberation, shedding of tears and promises that no open-heart surgery would be performed again like the previous time, permission was granted and the invasion scheduled for the next morning.

Water in Wyn in Bloed

Goeie nuus. Die boek sal vir die volgende 7 dae by Amazon teen die afslagprys van $3.99 beskikbaar wees.

Nou beskikbaar by Amazon

WATER IN WYN IN BLOED

“En ons het almal gedink sy sou van die stapel afklim nadat sy dit self van bo af met petrol deurweek en aan die brand gesteek het,” sê die man met die lang jas. Vir ’n lang tyd heers daar ’n doodse stilte onder die groepie begrafnisgangers onder die man met die jas se boom. In almal se gedagtes staan die strak prentjie van ’n lyk op ’n brandstapel deur vlamme omhul en ’n rookpluim wat die lug in spiraal, terwyl ’n sagte, suiwer sopraan die aria “Vissi d’arte” uit Tosca van Puccini uit die rook en vlamme vanaf die brandstapel sing:

Die boek is nou beskikbaar by Amazon vir Kindle lesers. Dit kan ook deur die App “Kindle for PC’s” op jou rekenaar afgelaai word.

Volg die skakel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073GXQZNM/

Water in Wyn in Bloed

Ek sal julle op hoogte hou van wanneer die boek beskikbaar sal wees.

Ode to a life lived well

Iets wat ek en ons ouboet nog altyd in gemeen gehad het; ons liefdie vir klasieke musiek, opera en jazz
Opgedra aan Dirk.

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