So, irritatingly, I have been delayed.
For some unknown crime in a past life, the powers that be presume to punish me with none-to-serious-but-oh-so-annoying ailments. Mumps for example, christmas 2006. What a stupidly pointless illness?! And yet, may I add, horribly painful and none to attractive. I literally looked like Bubbles from Little Britain (just the face of course). My crimes mustn't have been too awful I suppose. I probably stole some cheese.
And now cruel fate, it happens again. Instead of being on my plane to Australia on Monday 2nd March, I was being wheeled into surgery in an incredibly un-flattering see though, backless gown, green stockings which are meant to stop the inset of deep-vein thrombosis (???) and with what felt like thousands of holes on my arms where the bastards were desperately trying to inject things into/draw things out of me. What did I do??! I think fate enjoys playing some sort of heavenly ping-pong match with my fragile nerves.
If at all possible by the way, avoid hospitals at all costs. They are, in a word, ming.
Firstly, you are surrounded by sick people who all insist on coughing periodically to keep you from sleeping. Secondly, in some cruel bid to lace your thoughts with nightmares of MRSA, all the nurses and doctors constantly inform you of everything that may go wrong, or illnesses you may contract. Considering my operation was on my back, I was disturbed when the doctor warned me they may accidentally chip or break off some of my teeth. I'm sorry, my teeth? Are you planning to access my back through my mouth? Is your chosen instrument actually a sledgehammer?! Oh no, of course not, but as we put the breathing tube down your throat we may accidentally on purpose....
Also, being told you may wake up with a tube coming out of your stomach (another bizzare way of avoiding D.V.T) is none to settling.
Good grief. Some things you just don't want to know.
Finally, you always seem to get stuck with the one person in the world you'd most like to kill, or at least inflict some sort of pain on in some awful way (perhaps flicking matches in to their eyes). Thus is was so. Now I am not a 'weightist' person. I am no skinny minny myself, but attempt to keep myself in some sort of shape I suppose. But sometimes, some peoples problems are clear. In this case, my Ward 7 nemisis was no more than a lazy, fat, cow. Harsh but undeniably true, and supported by several nurses who often had to restrain themselves lest they bop the stupid woman right on her head.
'The Wailer' as I affectionally called her, lived up to her name. She wailed the entire time I was there. She would cry out that she was dying, that she was in so much pain, that she couldn't breathe properly. The reason being, as conveyed to her by her doctors, was that she wouldn't get off her fat arse and walk around the ward and get moving. She even refused to go to the loo, using a bed pan instead. This poor womans ailment must have been severe I hear you cry! It was not. She had had her appendix out. Two whole days before I even encountered her in dreaded Ward 7. I know people who don't have bowels anymore who are more able than this silly woman. When you are laying face down on your bed after just being wheeled out of surgery, and The Wailer is wailing in the face of the nurses who are telling her she is keeping everyone else awake and to stop being so selfish as she's had all the painkillers they can legally give her, it's difficult to resist the urge to drag ones self from bed and strangle this woman with her own I.V.
There. Now I have ranted I feel vaguely better. But I am still stuck here, and will be for a few more weeks. Drat and blast.
