Indignities

Standard

So, remember when I recently said that my blog was exhibiting this alarming trend toward becoming a litany of my various insignificant physical maladies?   I would like to point out, before continuing this particular entry, that I did just post two items that had nothing to do with my personal, um, person.

That being said, I am posting this from the “comfort” of a high-tech electronic air mattress hospital bed that randomly adjusts itself for my comfort, noisily and with fanfare.  It sounds as if we are about to achieve liftoff, but it’s really just the bed groaningly accommodating my butt.

I’m here for “observation” which really means “we’re not sure what the hell is wrong with you, but figure you’ve suffered enough.”  Apparently showing up at the ER twice in three days and not getting better despite hefty antibiotics demonstrates your sincerity in this respect.

Thus far I have suffered oh, the many indignities:  First, The Lovely Rhonda denied me my coffee.  My rightful, God-given coffee.  Which I got none of.  Today.

Moving on to the more hospital-specific indignities:  Peeing in a cup.  Peeing in a “hat.” Peeing dragging an IV pole around with me everywhere I go.  Wait — that’s dragging the pole everywhere, not peeing everywhere.  I’m not quite THAT elderly and infirm.  Also, I lost my underpants.  I mean, I know where they are, but where they are is a bag in the closet and not so much on my personal person any longer.

I had another abdominal CT scan, this time with contrast — delicious! — as well as a chest x-ray.  An adorable little long-stemmed fuzzy Q-tip was jammed so far into my right nostril that I swear there should have been brain matter on it; this was to determine whether I might just have the flu or something pedestrian like that.  And then, just in case you thought I was getting through all this with a tiny shred of my dignity still in place, they went for the silver: the pelvic ultrasound.  (They threatened me with the gold standard of indignity, the colonoscopy, but alas, it was not to be, at least not right now.)  I was wheeled into the dark little ultrasound room on my gurney like a slab of beef, and asked the tech: so are we going outside, or inside with this?  And she said, Both.  And another little part of me shrieked and died a horrible death.

Fifteen minutes later it was over.

She lit my cigarette for me and promised to call, but they never do.

They never do.

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