Home Columns Being sick (part 2)
Being sick (part 2)
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Being sick (part 2)

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Paul Richardson
Paul Richardson
Paul Richardson

Let me finish my account of a recent hospital stay. Pay attention, this could be life saving If you are ever confined.

After the agonizing ER wait (from part one) and I finally got a room, the morphine was working wonders. As the first shot wore off and the pain began to return, I decided to make a quick trip to the “facilities.”

Just as I rolled off the bed, the sirens went off. I thought it was an air raid. I tired to take cover in the closet, but it was not built for a man my size.

My next choice was under the bed, but it too, was blocked by all kinds of bars and levers.

So my only quick alternative was to crouch in the corner behind the lounge chair and hope to avoid a direct hit.

But as luck would have it, it was a false alarm. Imagine my embarrassment when I learned it was an alarm on the bed so they would know if I got up and tried to escape. Of course, by this time, during all the excitement, a trip to the little boy’s room was no longer necessary.

It was at supper time that night that I learned another very important lesson. Never, ever, go into the hospital without a sack of contraband in your bag. I’m talking about such things as snack cakes, cookies, peanuts, popcorn, and above all else, a container of salt and black pepper.

I don’t know what it is about hospitals and salt and pepper, but they act like it is more precious than gold.

I swear I opened my one and only paper package of black pepper that night to go on my taters, and three grains fell out! Eating without pepper is like being tortured with thumb screws.

The only thing I can think of worse than a country boy having to chow down on meat and veggies without salt and pepper, is being held down by the Atlanta Falcon’s defensive line while the guy with the suppositories got his jollies.

And to add insult to injury, for two days, blood curdling screams echoed from three doors down while chairs and odd pieces of furniture slammed against the wall. I wasn’t sure if they were trying to sacrifice a virgin or breed a herd of camels, but it was interfering with my drug induced rest.

I finally had enough and complained. It turned out to be an undisciplined four year old brat. He and the parents were escorted out.

Days later when the doc mentioned home, I was content to stay a little longer. But when the pain killer stopped, I packed.

I really was ready to see the old home place after all, so much in fact, I would probably have kissed an armadillo if necessary. (If you’ve ever seen an armadillo up close, you know they give ugly a whole new definition).

This concludes my story. File it away for future use. Being sick is really no fun. If you have to go, go prepared. And above all, insist on morphine as your pain killer. It’s a whole new experience.
(This is actually a true story, as much as I hate to admit it.)