The Island of Doctor No

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.  A tale of a fateful trip...to the Island of Doctor No.

The weather began getting rough the day after my surgery when the doctor came into the hospital room to check on my progress.

 I was sitting up in bed, using my laptop to answer emails.  (I was actually kind of proud of myself since I was able, in my drug-induced stupor, to string together real words with real punctuation that almost made sense, you know, kind of like real sentences.)

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

Um,  I'm pretty sure I'm doing emails, but since I've got more drugs pumping through my veins than a former child star on their first Saturday night out of rehab, I could be wrong.

"No." she shook her head and reached for the computer.

"No?"

"No.  You shouldn't be doing repetitive motions with your hands and arms like that after that kind of surgery."

Uh Oh.  I was starting to suspect that the Skipper had just run my boat aground on a really bad island.

"Oh, and you can't drive, cook, clean, wash, brush or style your hair, wear a pull-over shirt, do laundry, wear your contacts, hail a cab or high-five anyone.  At all.  For quite some time.  Seriously."

No hair? No contacts? No computer?  No driving???  Hell no.  Page the Professor.  I am getting off this Isle.  I want to be on a different island.  Hey, how about Fantasy Island?  I could stay there.  No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry. Yeah.  Sign me up for that tour.      

"I'll see you in two days, " Dr. No announced while proceeding to take away my iphone, contact lenses, brush, and hair clips.  "Oh, and stop doing that too."

What?  I was lying there like a slug, now that everything of value or interest had been denied me.  Never mind the Professor.  I'd settle for Gilligan and his bamboo and feather wings.

"Talking with your hands.  Too much arm movement."

Seriously???  But then how will I communicate?  Without my hands, I'm pretty sure I would stutter at the very least, and quite possibly be rendered mute.  Gasp! I couldn't even be a mime!  Oh no!!!

And so began my weeks of exile on the Island of Doctor No.  Stranded without so much as one of Mary Ann's coconut cream pies.  And since I couldn't use my arms at all, according to the mad doctor, I couldn't even shimmy into one of Ginger's four thousand gowns or Mrs. Howell's ostrich plume hat to cheer myself up!

Every week, twice a week, I would arrive in her office, hopeful of a rescue.  At that point, I would have climbed aboard a rubber dingy being towed by Jaws.

Can I brush my hair?

No.

Can I style my hair?

No.

I mean just like this (trying to bend in half and grab the brush and clip with my toes)

No.

Can I take the dog out to potty?

No (okay, so maybe I celebrated in my head just a wee bit over that one).

Can I take the dog out to walk?

No.

Have a normal conversation?  You know, wiggle a finger or bend my thumb when I talk.

No.

Blink?

No.

 Sneeze?

God, No.

Breathe?

No.

At least Gilligan's island had movie director's, vampires and the occasional Harlem Globtrotter drop by to try and spring them.  All I  had was my mother and Tim, who, on a good day made my hair look like it was storm-tossed, and were slowly reorganizing me out of my own kitchen!

Finally, just as I was considering trying to find an ape suit and ship myself off the Island to the Bronx Zoo where I could live out my life eating bananas and picking fleas off my mate, Doctor No began to say...maybe.  All was not lost.

As I feverishly paddled my raft away from the island, Doctor No waved me off, "I'll see you every few weeks now, and soon we'll schedule your final operation."

Oh No!