In The Hospital

I am sick to death of being ill. Last Sunday, after a lovely 3-hour wait in the local emergency room, replete with a screaming girl who had some sort of cut on her face and a coughing, spluttering chorus of disease-ridden adults, I found my way to a doctor, who informed me that I was quite unwell.

Allow me to take you back to my Sunday morning:

Feeling under the weather, I decided to go against my friends' wishes and decline their invitation for 10am drinks at the local watering hole and instead decided to watch from my home base as England were taken apart by a rampant German team in their second round World Cup match.

At half time in the game with England 2-1 down, I received a text message from a girl I had been seeing, we'll call her Amy,  informing me of her intention to never see me again. Caught up in the game highlights, I forgot to reply. I'm sure there is some sort of connection between my football-watching and her relationship-ending. Anyway, England were losing the game and I could tell that I was feeling rough because the game seemed to pale in significance against my urgent need to find the best position for me to lay on the couch - facing the cushion. The fact that England were 4-1 down by that point probably had something to do with it too.

From my position facing the flowery couch cushion I fashioned a text message to Amy which was supposed to say "Maybe we can get coffee soon and talk?"

Instead, on review, it read "Maybe when coffee tweet?"

I did not receive a reply to my Shakespearean attempts at salvaging the relationship. Sad and feeling like my head was inside of a constantly beating drum, I decided I had to try and sleep and maybe magically, sleep will fix whatever was happening with my body. It did not. I woke up to the sound of my heartbeat in my skull, amongst other gory symptoms that are unfit for publication and concluded that I must make my way to the local disease-orium.

I was greeted at the hospital by a young man in baby blue hospital fatigues and matching white mask who asked me if I had been seen by anyone. I turned around and glanced fleetingly at the constantly opening and closing emergency room doors. I wasn't aware I had to make my entry in secret. I told him I had made my way to the hospital undetected and would prefer to continue this intriguing conversation post treatment. He provided a form for me to detail my bodily complaints, which I hastily filled out as all manner of diseases and injuries revealed themselves to me, like a disgusting conveyer belt on the worst gameshow ever.

Triage was next. I rolled up my sleeve so the Triage Nurse could take my blood pressure. She told me it was really low, in way that suggested I was doing something to influence the results.

"Hmm, your blood pressure seems a little too low," she said as she sat back in her wheeled-chair, folding her arms and pausing like a police officer waiting for an admittance of guilt.

And then, as is the way in these sorts of places she calmly followed up with a defeated shrug and said ;

 "Well, anyway, take your form to the next window and a doctor will be with you soon."

Soon, in hospital terms is not like the soon you are I know. Hospital soon is an altogether different kind. The kind which can span anywhere from 10 minutes to the day Steve Jobs eventually takes over the world and makes us his i-slaves who help him build his fort that will protect him from those large-thumbed Blackberry hordes.

In this case, soon was around three hours. I would have made use of those three hours, but given my state, all I could do was call my family and ensure that nobody sat close to me in the hospital by coughing excessively and looking intensely at anyone who even dared look at the plastic red seat beside my own.

Just as I was perfecting my cough, a group of people scurried in,  surrounding a girl with a cut on her forehead who was obssessively asking each of her posse whether it looked okay. It did not. But not one of her friends were ready to admit it.

 "It looks okay, " said one.

"It makes you look edgy, " added another, hilariously.

The blond-haired girl paced the waiting room and in her increasing angst continued to make various appeals to the Triage Nurse to let her in first, ahead of the bleeding children and the pale elderly humans who comprised the rest of my fellow emergency room inhabitants.

Eventually, it was my time for them to look under my hood and assess the damage. I was guided through the hallowed doors to the treatment area of the ER and onto a hospital bed by two nurses who, after setting my decrepit body down on the linen sheets, attached me to various machines who's job it would be to monitor everything that occurred in my body for the near future. It is nearly impossible to rest when your heart-monitor flat-lines eleven times over a ten-minute period because of "system maintenance," helping you to receive nervous glances from everyone in the room, even though you are sitting up and thus clearly not dead.

I rested my head gently in slow-motion on the industrial strength pillow and listened to the conversations of other unfortunate souls in the cramped and dark emergency ward. Next to me was a man who, every time someone came in and asked him how he was,  would say "Not great, I mean look where i am." and then laugh to himself and wait for the other person to laugh too. Mr. Popular had about 300 visitors over the 3 hours we shared a 40ft squared piece of the universe, each beginning with the same query, and receiving the same response.

The nurses station was occupied by two female nurses who were comparing their hospital outfits like they were at a fashion show in Milan,  "Oh, yours has ducks on it. Very cute," and a male Doctor who was resting his head on his hand and staring at a piece of paper, looking bored with the persistent chaos that surrounded him.

As I zoned out staring at the ridiculous "If you're feeling unwell, welcome aboard " boat poster on the wall above the nurses station, a doctor made his way inside the room towards my heavily-blanketed bed.

Talking with doctors is often confusing for me. They expect me to understand what they're saying, so long as they say it in a calm way and use patronizing hand gestures to articulate their point. I nodded along and unconsciously agreed that it would be best if  I go for an ultrasound. I was taken to the ultrasound room by the hospital porter, a man who more closely resembled a tree than anyone I've ever seen. He grabbed the entire hospital bed with one arm, almost lifting it, and turned it around while holding the door open with the other arm.

From there it was a 5-minute magical carpet ride to the ultrasound room, which I was placed outside in the brightly coloured waiting area along with four other people, all aligned in our hospital beds like we were about to compete in a race around the hospital. Judging by the condition of those elderly women, I would have won that race quite handily, too. Instead, I was called in for my ultrasound by a young girl, who looked around twenty-five. She was quite attractive, which made the whole ultrasound experience quite awkward. I tried to break the tension.

"Have you had anything to eat today?" she asked, for probably the 15,000th time that day.

"I could go for a bite, " I responded.

She steadfastly refused to break character, although the faint hint of a smile seemed to suggest she at least appreciated my attempts at humour. I decided against adding further comments ("Don't tell me whether it's a boy or girl, I want to be surprised." etc.) and just sat back and wondered whether that ultrasound gel that they use is really necessary. I still don't think it is.

The tree-man came back to taxi me to my HQ on the hospital emergency ward which would be my home for the next couple of  days

"How are you feeling now?," I heard faintly

"Not great, I mean look where I am."

Home sweet home.

When the Doctor next came back to me  he scrawled on a piece of paper and held it in front of my face like a hostage remonstrating for the camera in one of those kidnapping videos. Instead of saying "tell my wife I love her" the note described the medication I should be taking for the next month.

Pleased with the official diagnosis and assigned course of treatment, I was now able to relax a little as the nurses poked and prodded their way to helping me on the road to recovery. After a few days of rest and daytime TV, I am now able to be a human being again : going outside, meeting people - even playing football again (albeit for a quite out-of-shape pub team).

As much fun as my hospital experience was, I would rather not do it again.

Bloggerstock: The Story of What's on My Desk

I have recently joined an organization which randomly pairs you with another person from the blogosphere so that you can write on their blog under an assigned topic for each month. No, this is not a cult. It is actually quite cool, you'll see. 

I was selected to post on Kara's website at http://chowschatter.wordpress.com so that's where my post will be lurking for those of you who enjoy my writing. You sick, sick, people, you. 

The following entry comes from my Bloggerstock cohort for this month - Essie. After reading the following entry, head over here - http://lochessmonster.blogspot.com/ to read more from her. You won't regret it. I promise.     

The Story of what's on my desk

This is the true story of what’s on my desk:

A PC.  My husband bought it at Incredible Connection before I took all his money in the divorce. And also his PC. And his desk.

Divorce is awesome.

But I thought that I should aim for at least a few more words and something at least remotely interesting so I tried to lure a mythical creature onto the desk with a bowl of cream (no really – read Bryan Froud, that’s how you do it).

In all seriousness, I suppose the only thing that stood out for me when looking at that plain pine desk was what WASN’T on there: our wedding picture. It used to balance precariously between the pens and books and dead minitiature potplants. In the months after our separation we delicately started removing the photographs, but it doesn’t really help. You still see them in the spaces where they’re not.

Of course, the whole dance of marriage is so bizarre, I don’t really blame either of us for figuring out the steps. I remember feeling somewhat pissed off at the tiny, plain piece of paper the pastor handed us. I expected gilt edges and curliques – not a scrap of office paper with handwritten details and crude signatures. Thinking back that is probably symbolic of the whole thing – a watered down but weightier version of what you hope for.

There ARE still elements of him on the desk. A heavy stone I picked up in a mine in Kimberley and brought home for him to use as a paperweight. A plastic bunny we got in cereal box. A ceramic fairy we bought on honeymoon. A pen he had stolen from me that I stole back.

Whatever we are to one another now, wherever we live – you never really separate from one another. You become part of each other’s stories, even if your lives split in two. Despite everything that happened I do like that a part of him is always in the back of my mind and even on top of my desk.

PS. But I’m not giving it back.

My Quadrennial Pub-Hopping Vacation

"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. But I assure you, It's far more important than that."

-Bill Shankly

As you may or may not know, tomorrow marks the beginning of the quadrennial most important month on planet Earth. Groups of 11 men from 32 nations around the globe will be fighting for the right to call themselves Masters of the Soccer Universe, while billions of others, such as myself, watch on television. To onlookers, this ritual is slightly strange. To those on the inside, it is equally as important as over-celebrated life staples such as food, water and Justin Bieber. It is because of this event that I will be blogging less in the next month.
   
Now, I understand you may be concerned for my well-being during my welcome absence from your life, so I have concocted a plan : I have created a Twitter account, from which I will be regularly updating people and assorted computer proficient animals on the various banalities of my existence, as is Twitter's purpose. Follow the link for 140 characters per serving scoops of my drunken existence (plus random World Cup news.)

Dear Phone Company

Dear Phone Company,

Not only did Mr. Patrick Owen Doors give you a fake number (mine) but he also gave you a fake name. While I have come to enjoy the brief chats with your various Customer Service Agents for the past few weeks concerning this matter, I will have to ask that you stop now. I will, of course, pass on your urgent message for Mr. Paddy O' Doors concerning his account status, but one would assume that not being real might hinder his ability to be concerned about tangible real-world matters such as telephone bills and account statuses.

Love always,

Rob.

P.S : Same goes for his wife, Patricia.

Waiting For The Train - Heartfelt Memories of a Night Best-Forgotten

I don't mind taking the train. Despite the seemingly toxic mix of sky-rocketing ticket prices and floor-scraping service provided in hateful spoonfuls by our local rail operator, I still enjoy the train-going experience. It is on this subject that I find myself writing this blog entry. I know, I can't wait to read it either.

Arriving at a fashionably late 9.42pm for my 9.30pm train, I knew that I would be looking at an almost hour-long wait for the next Westbound train to screech into the platform to mark its 10.30pm arrival. Waiting at the station has become a common occurence. But as an avid people watcher, the wait usually goes by quickly for me. Sadly, the same cannot be said of my fellow inmates trapped in this public transit prison, as they edge away from the people-watching foreigner, looking at their watches nervously as they pull their belongings tight to their painfully uncomfortable steel seats.

As I was walking up to the Ticket Office to confirm that I would be serving a 45-minute custodial sentence in this railside Alcatraz, I noticed that a group of teenage girls were squawking at the tired old Ticket Attendant. They were, it seems, upset over the cost of a ticket. While I completed agreed with their central complaint, I felt sorry for the elderly gentleman behind the plexi-glass who, presumably, was not the multi-millionaire benefactor of this railway extortion operation, certainly not if his grey apron and matching nametag was anything to go on. No. "Station worker Francis" was just a victim.

As these young girls "like"d and "omg"'d their way through their confused complaints: "Like, how much does it cost you to print a ticket?!!" etc,  I caught the eye of another woman in the station. She gave me an eye-roll and then mouthed something like "stupid teenagers." My lip-reading is awful, though. She could have been trying to say "stooping meat-haters" - in any case, my reaction was to smile and then, sensing the anger in her mouthed words, nod sternly in agreement with her cloaked pronouncement.

It was my turn next to speak with Francis.

"What?" - the first word spoken in my relationship with Francis was a crossed one.

I could tell that we were going to be close friends.

"Hey", I began.."Could you tell me when the next train is arriving?" 

"Ten Thirty," said my new best friend, without looking at me.

I would have used to the wait to get to know Francis a little better. But then, I feared any further questioning would have been instantly followed by my swift and violent death via the sharp end of a pen attached with thin, knotted string to Francis' workspace.

10:10pm: By this point there was only twenty minutes left until the train arrived, so I went to take a seat in the steel chair-like contraptions that stalked the perimeter of the station. Using my peripheral vision while playing around with my phone, I could tell the man sitting beside me was glancing at me periodically.

I looked up and my red-haired trench-coat wearing chair neighbour used this opportunity to ask me the following question : "Would you like to read my newspaper when I'm done with it?"  An intriguing question, since, it seemed to suggest that he wasn't done reading now, but i would be first in line to recieve his newspaper after he's finished.

Confused, I responded "Sure.. thanks." 

"Okay, I'll let you know." Chair Neighbour said, continuing to read.

I couldn't deal with these head games anymore, so I went outside to enjoy some yard time in the fresh night air. By this point, the gang of gaggling teenagers had made their way outside too and were taking turns to puff away on some sort of community cigarette. The eye-rolling woman from inside was picked up in an expensive car, and in the process of locating the leather front passenger seat with her rear-end she leaned out the door long enough to advise the noisy smokers to  "start acting like fucking adults and be quiet, because my friend is a police officer and he would have arrested you if he saw what you were doing inside."  Odd, how the promise of a quick getaway can bring out the honesty in people.

10.24pm :  It was almost time for my release. I followed the advice of the LCD screen on the right-hand side of the station entrance and made my way to Platform 1, from which point my getaway vehicle would escort me home. Bounding up the stairs to Platform 1 like a gleeful child, I almost tripped on the final step in my excitement, only sticking the landing thanks to some fast reactions and the motivation of a rather large  mysterious blue stain on the once concrete-coloured concrete floor.

10.32pm: There was still no sign of the train and a skunk made its way across the track. I noted to myself that I should not run across the tracks and jump in the bush on the otherside, as it appeared to be infested with rodents. As I was going over the possibility of spending the night with the bush-dwelling animals, the train bell rang out in the distance. About time.

The feeling of seeing those green and white carriages make their painfully slow way towards the station was worth the $10 alone.

I watched the station get smaller in the distance from the window of the quickly-accelerating train.

Free, at last.

Fin.

Write Me Up a Prescription, Stat!

I'm not much of a scientist. Sure, I walk around my house in a white lab coat and say "stat" while giving orders to anyone within ear-shot. But other than the odd game of buck-a-roo-operation that I personally invented, I've never dabbled in the sciencey stuff. Yet, I've always held out hope that one of my theories would be proven true.

Well, it's finally happened : science has caught on to the idea that Guiness, the world's favourite meal in a glass, is actually good for you. Apparently, as well as being delicious and mysterious, Guiness can prevent heart-attacks.

From the BBC :

"They believe that "antioxidant compounds" in the Guinness, similar to those found in certain fruits and vegetables, are responsible for the health benefits because they slow down the deposit of harmful cholesterol on the artery walls.

The researchers told a meeting of the American Heart Association in Orlando, Florida, that the most benefit they saw was from 24 fluid ounces of Guinness - just over a pint - taken at mealtimes."

And my favourite quote from the entire article :

"Pregnant women and nursing mothers were at one stage advised to drink Guinness - the present advice is against this."

Good thing they mentioned that, eh ladies?

Now that science has finally figured out that a pint of Guiness per day might actually be good for you after all, maybe they can start working on the intricate calculations required to make people stop drinking more than one pint. They should ask the guys who invented Molson Canadian, 'cause they nailed it.

One Man's Trash

Today my next door neighbour is having a garage sale. It's an exciting day in the life of a neighbourhood when a person puts their belongings on  plastic tables beneath the afternoon sun and offers up their memories at bargain prices. After a brief 2-minute mosey next door, I discovered that today's memories include but are not limited to such items as :  picture frames, a coffee maker, a microwave, a Nascar toy collection and possibly best of all, a t-shirt that reads "what's up, bitches?" (Sadly, its XXL fabric expanse would have acted as a blanket/parachute for my not XXL frame. One man's trash and all that.)

Every 20 minutes or so, a new person comes by to wander around the smattering of tables on the front lawn - lifting the coffee maker to check for breakages, measuring the picture frames (I'm assuming to see if the t-shirt would fit within) and pressing buttons on the once white-coloured microwave.

If this afternoon's gathering is anything to go by, bikers love garage sales. Earlier, there was a wave of black leather riding atop a sea of silver steel outside my living room window. That must be the infamous antiquing gang out of Hamilton, Ontario.

The event is now coming to a close it seems. The initial neighbourhood buzz about the microwave finally ebbing way, the remaining items are being packed (read : hurled) into a cardboard prison from which they will surely never escape; not if the ominous black marker label "basement stuff" is anything to go on.

About twenty minutes ago, midway through this blog entry I had the idea of giving them $20 to buy everything, and then immediately setting up my own table outside on my lawn and re-selling their items for profit to the numerous folk still lingering in the area. But obviously I decided against the idea, for fear of  A) being referred to as the "the guy who sold me that t-shirt," and B) upsetting a neighbour who may have some sort of gang affiliation.

All that's left now on the lawn is a sign that reads "Cheap Housewear". I think I just figured out how they could make use of that t-shirt AND save money on their heating bills.