ScaryMonster
01-12-12, 01:37 AM
I got out of hospital about two weeks ago; the specialist shook my hand and congratulated me on not dying. Which I thought was very nice of him, but was not that the whole point?
And why did he stare at me as if he’d love to have me stuffed and mounted above his mantle piece.
They never actually told me that I was on deaths door when I was a patient only that it was serious.
The only thing that seemed to be making me sick was the tablets and injections they were giving me. I won’t go into what was actually wrong with me, only to say that according to the medical experts, I was very sick indeed. (Or potentially so if this thing was not dealt with.)
However, I felt fine in hospital, and I looked the picture of health. I was in a public ward surrounded by people who had broken limb’s. Some of whom were often weeping because of their sorry situation, now that was a depressing sort of place to be, but I didn’t feel sorry for them; they were going to get better. I was in medical limbo.
I guess it was a good time to develop stoicism, if anything I felt bored.
I couldn’t shed a tear for my own situation, even though my hospitalisation was some sort of medical mystery. Moreover, hoards of medical students would converge on my bed to marvel at the rare sufferer of thingamabob.
Swarms of pathology vampires would fill countless test tubes with my blood, but the first indication, I got that this was something was rare and wonderful if not for me but the hospital, was when the radiologist who had done the CT scans, ultra sounds and the MRIs of me, came to visit my bedside.
Apparently, she had won the credit for making the diagnosis and wanted a picture taken with me. Unprofessional you might think? But the whole thing was weird.
Initially, an Intern had made a quick diagnosis that they’d sent me home with a few pills and an instruction to visit a GP, in a few days for a check up, which I did and the GP increased the dose of the pills they’d given me.
When I took them, I had some odd reactions, so I returned to the hospital just to be on that safe side, they did the scans and decided to keep me there under observation over night, I fell asleep thinking I’d be walking out the next day. When I awoke my bed was surrounded doctors, and one was on her cell phone receiving instructions from the top specialist who was flying back into town apparently just to examine me.
Two weeks, later I hobbled, drugged and dizzy out of that hospital, they were sorry to see me go. Apparently, I have to take a cocktail of drugs for the rest of my life to maintain my health. But the side effects are tough, and my system only now seems to be adjusting to them; I actually felt better when I was sick and could have (from what they said) stroked out at any second.
In two weeks, I’ve got to go back as an out patient, but apparently they’ve organised a student clinic around my visit; I wouldn’t have agreed to it, but I thought what the hell maybe it’ll help someone else in the future.
ScaryMonster.
And why did he stare at me as if he’d love to have me stuffed and mounted above his mantle piece.
They never actually told me that I was on deaths door when I was a patient only that it was serious.
The only thing that seemed to be making me sick was the tablets and injections they were giving me. I won’t go into what was actually wrong with me, only to say that according to the medical experts, I was very sick indeed. (Or potentially so if this thing was not dealt with.)
However, I felt fine in hospital, and I looked the picture of health. I was in a public ward surrounded by people who had broken limb’s. Some of whom were often weeping because of their sorry situation, now that was a depressing sort of place to be, but I didn’t feel sorry for them; they were going to get better. I was in medical limbo.
I guess it was a good time to develop stoicism, if anything I felt bored.
I couldn’t shed a tear for my own situation, even though my hospitalisation was some sort of medical mystery. Moreover, hoards of medical students would converge on my bed to marvel at the rare sufferer of thingamabob.
Swarms of pathology vampires would fill countless test tubes with my blood, but the first indication, I got that this was something was rare and wonderful if not for me but the hospital, was when the radiologist who had done the CT scans, ultra sounds and the MRIs of me, came to visit my bedside.
Apparently, she had won the credit for making the diagnosis and wanted a picture taken with me. Unprofessional you might think? But the whole thing was weird.
Initially, an Intern had made a quick diagnosis that they’d sent me home with a few pills and an instruction to visit a GP, in a few days for a check up, which I did and the GP increased the dose of the pills they’d given me.
When I took them, I had some odd reactions, so I returned to the hospital just to be on that safe side, they did the scans and decided to keep me there under observation over night, I fell asleep thinking I’d be walking out the next day. When I awoke my bed was surrounded doctors, and one was on her cell phone receiving instructions from the top specialist who was flying back into town apparently just to examine me.
Two weeks, later I hobbled, drugged and dizzy out of that hospital, they were sorry to see me go. Apparently, I have to take a cocktail of drugs for the rest of my life to maintain my health. But the side effects are tough, and my system only now seems to be adjusting to them; I actually felt better when I was sick and could have (from what they said) stroked out at any second.
In two weeks, I’ve got to go back as an out patient, but apparently they’ve organised a student clinic around my visit; I wouldn’t have agreed to it, but I thought what the hell maybe it’ll help someone else in the future.
ScaryMonster.