Where as my normal circumstances would have left me truly keen to be going on a trip up the coast, the circumstances surrounding this trip left me feeling a little cold, and even more than a little ripped off. Ripped off like mum’s knickers on Father’s Day in fact!
I was not going to sample smoky barbecued delights, yum cha or even enjoy a cracking breakfast by the ocean. Nor was I to visit the local farmers market or food fair, or even a new coffee shop or bar. No, I was going to hospital to have my tonsils and adenoids removed.
Well that’s just effing awesome, isn’t it?
No it isn’t.
On the slight upside though, the waiting room did have a nice stash of those magazines that bring you up to speed on such topics as Leighton and Bec’s marriage, Pete Fucking Evans’ journey from pizza to paleo and Prince William being quoted as saying, and I quote him directly now, “soon little George will able to run faster than me”.
I’m pretty happy about all of that.
Another thing I’m happy about is the communal experience that is the public hospital system. All in, if you will. Not “all in” like Friday night at the Johnston’s house at number 56, but more like the “all in” of a royal wedding – every bastard with-in a 10 meter radius gets to see and hear everything;
• Gowns that are a little bit too one-size-fits-all for a 6’4″ red bearded old pirate, making it seem like you’re great friends with your neighbour already… childhood friends possibly.
• Phone calls to loved ones, that are screened by nothing but a thin curtain. I am not lying when I tell you I just heard Jeffery next to me telling his parents that if they were coming up to visit him they were more than welcome to take his bed at home, but they would need to bring their own clean sheets.
• And then the local Esme Watson of the nursing staff rumor milling and worst-case-scenario-ing until the guy next to me is shitting himself and visibly deteriorating by the second…
That’s just the simple view of a hospital first timer.
And what did I learn from this experience?
Well, next time I would certainly go in a little more prepared. If I had known for just one second that every single story I have heard about hospital food was 100% (yes, read it, 100%) true, I would have packed myself a little hobo pack or some decent condiments at the very least.
And I probably would’ve asked a few more questions, or in fact even one question, about the procedure.
As I didn’t do the research, and nobody brought it to my attention, it was only after the tonsillectomy that I realised that the procedure goes a little something like this; some sneaky bastard got an ordinary household food grater, pushed it back and fourth down my throat and then pulled it out again. We didn’t even date first…
I am now doped up to the eyeballs and couch bound for a day or two so I dare say there will be a bit of creative writing coming from this.