The Titanium Pump
So I have this titanium pump inside my stomach that’s about the size of a Big Mac. Well, it’s difficult to tell exactly how thick it is, but it’s about as wide as a Big Mac. And it’s much harder, unless you’re talking about one of those Big Macs that somehow got shoved under your car seat for a couple of weeks.
Anyway, the pump was used to inject chemo directly into my liver for a few months. Unfortunately, it didn’t give us the outcome we wanted and now it just sits there, dormant.
The thing causes me fits at the airports. I set off the alarm every time, of course, so that means I have to be put in one of those special rooms and then wanded and frisked like a common criminal. Oh the airport people are always nice and respectful and careful with my curious right side, but it’s a bit embarrassing and it takes so much time.
Plus, they always ask me to raise my arms, and then they don’t quite know what to do or say when I only raise the one. “Sorry, that’s all I got,” is my typical joke. Freaks them out.
And I also set off the alarms at the State Capitol Building, where I work. Frustrating thing is that the people who are stationed there change all the time. Most of them know me, and tell the police officer on duty that I’m okay. “He’s got a pump,” they say. And usually the officer nods and says, “oh,” as if this bit of information explains anything. So most of the time I sail right on through, although one officer wands me every time, as if hoping to catch me if ever I try to sneak in with something I’m not supposed to.
But others don’t know me from Adam, and they may wand, frisk, and/or ask me a series of semi-probing questions. “So, what’s the pump for?” “Is it, like, beneath the skin?”
The pump did come in handy last week, however, when some drunk girl at the Norman Music Festival mistook me for someone else and then slugged me hard, right in the stomach. Her fist landed right on the pump, and she yelled, “Dammit! What the hell was that?” (It’s a direct quote.)
At this point, she saw that I was not who she thought I was and began slurring a horrified apology, while shaking her hand, which was apparently in some very real pain. I never answered her question; just smiled, said I was okay, and walked away.
The punch didn’t hurt me at all. In fact, for a brief moment, I felt like Superman.
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Comments
Ha Ha! That girl’s going to have a good story to tell her grandkids about the “robot” she punched at a music festival.
Love the description “my curious side.” My father lost his left arm when he was 14 years old. Having never seen him with two arms, he looked like he was suppose to look to me and my sister. He would have looked odd with both arms. And it’s always a surprise when people ask me how my dad lost his arm, because “that’s just dad.” Perception really is relative.
Keep setting those alarms off, Jim!
need to get a Superman tattoo over that pump – that would be fitting for a man of steel (or titanium)
Jim,
I would think that having a “pump” in the legal world might have the wrong connotation (as in Donald Thompson, the former Oklahoma district judge). So…..you might need to set the record straight with the security team! Just a thought…. 
OMG, You had me laughing so hard (and rather loudly) I had my dogs barking at me!!!
Re: the “tipsy” girl punching your pump. Way to go, Superman!! That oughta teach people “you don’t mess around with Jim”. BTW, didn’t Jim Croce record a song with that same title?
I’m missing a good portion of my right index finger, which, as you well know, leads to occasional awkwardness, but usually lame-ish jokes. I don’t set off any alarms, which I’m sure is beyond inconvenient. But hats off to a brief moment of celebrity, of superhuman feeling!! Way to keep a good attitude about a major inconvenience into your life.