{This and the entries around it are excerpts from my journal, written during the return of my 6 month curse. Approximately every 6 months I hurt myself in some sort of spectacular fashion, usually necessitating a hospital visit. This time, though, the injury was a bit more spectacular than usual.}
They keep saying I might get out tomorrow but strangely enough that magical day never seems to get here. It’s always just today and I go through a cycle of feeling okay and then feeling bad, of fever and calm. Some notes:
The food here isn’t bad. A lot better than a cafeteria, some of it is actually pretty good. Although today I found the “hearty beef stew” tasted much of the “vegetable minestrone” I was so impressed with last night. It was not improved by the addition of meat and boiled potato chunks.
Also, there are a lot of rude patients in this hospital. More so, it seems, than even the general populace. Overheard, “I hope there are enough pillows tonight. I requested eight last night and didn’t get them.” And, “‘You take your pills at 12, sir.’ ‘But I could take them now’ ’12, sir’ (nurse leaves) ‘Nurse! Nurse! Stupid idiotic nurse. Where did you get your nursing degree? A cracker jack box?'”
People, it’s not a hotel. It’s a hospital. There are thousands of other patients waiting to be seen. Things happen on a schedule, yes, but only one person is going to get their food at precisely that time.
Is it because of where I am? If you aren’t sure of how you’re going to pay for this… then would you worry more about it? Would it make you more stressed? (I know I am). Would you try to ring out every bit of a service experience that you can’t usually afford? Or are you afraid that they’re just going to stick you away someplace and forget about you, so you become determined to fight for yourself, to lash out to call attention to yourself, just so they don’t forget you and just let you die?