“You
expect me to stir my coffee with a fork? A FORK?!?!? The gross incompetence of this
hospital is staggering. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
I
think I need to go back to ward reception to thank them – I had asked them for some
entertaining ward-mates this morning and wowsers did they ever deliver!
The
irate, horrible old man is back – across the room but still very, very audible.
I can hear him berating a doctor again from here, and so badly want to go ask
him to “yell a little louder please, I need a good blog post for today”, just
to watch him turn purple. He just spent 20 minutes yelling at a group of nurses
at their desk who were only vaguely paying attention to him – something about
the gall of the hospital to make him wait.
We
are on the infusion ward. We’re ALL waiting – just chill out like the rest of
us.
They
finally got rid of him as he stormed back over to his chair, only to come
flying back at them in a rage over the lack of plastic spoons available at the
coffee cart. A firm Irish nurse urged him back to his spot like a lion tamer wielding
a wooden chair and a whip (back you crazy bastard, back!) and he managed to sit
still for a while, harrumphing loudly toward anyone that came within his
sights.
I’d
gone down to the Sarc clinic this morning, and it was decided that in addition
to my regular Infliximab infusion today I would need another steroid infusion
as well (fun), so I needed to wait for a doctor to arrive on the ward to check
me out and give them the all clear before any infusions could start. Not a
problem, I assured the nurses as they came to apologize for the wait, I’m here
all day anyway.
My
stomach just gave a loud rumble – it’s already noon and the noodle bar of satay
awesomeness is open downstairs. I can’t go now and risk missing the doctor when
they arrive, but I was in the clinic when the lunch orders went around. Come on
doctor. Come on. The noodle bar closes in an hour, if I miss out on that the
only vegetarian option left is mushy peas and unidentifiable quiche of some
sort. Come on doctor! I assure the nurses again with a smile that I’m happy to
wait – telling them so as my eyes slowly drag to the left, watching the other
patients’ lunches arrive. The room is filled with the smell of warm potato, oil
from fish and chips and the sweet aroma of warm custard. Spoons and forks are
clinking against plates and I’m salivating so hard the back of my jaw is
burning.
Ten
minutes later and I was still waiting. The other patients had nearly finished
their lunches. Hunger pains were stabbing my already aching chemo-tummy. I
refusd to eat the apple I brought prematurely – that was for later and my
stomach was expecting satay noodles – I wasn’t going to risk disappointing it.
I know the type of stuff it pulls when angry with me. Where was that doctor! Let’s
get a move on here!
20
minutes later and I was still waiting. I’m normally quite happy to do so, but
this noodle situation was getting dire. It was closing in less than half an hour – didn’t people realize this? Another
nurse came by, noticing that I didn’t have a lunch in front of me and
encouraging me to order something before it was too late. So I did – mushy peas
and some kind of quiche thing. It was the only vegetarian thing on the menu and
I didn’t actually plan on eating it anyway. Hurry up doctor!
It
had been 30 minutes, time was cutting it close and there was a flurry of
movement across the room – The Doctor had arrived! Drugs and bodily fluid
samples were now flowing like champagne at a wedding. Patients sat up a little
straighter and the nurses leapt into action. The doctor was making her rounds
through our ward. She made eye contact with me from across the room – she was
coming to me next. Next! I was next! Two minutes with her and I can get on with
my life – dropping off my prescriptions at the pharmacy, arranging my next
session AND BOOKING IT TO THAT NOODLE BAR FOR LUNCH before the infusions
started.
She
finished with patient 0 over there and started walking toward me. I sat up a
little straighter and smiled – a welcoming ‘get to me so I can go’ kind of
smile. A ‘don’t worry, I’ll be an easy patient’ kind of smile. She was nearly
on my side of the room when WHAMMO! That irate old man came out of NOWHERE and
got her, pulling her over to his chair zone with an angry rant and threats of
formal complaints.
WHAT?!? Interference!!!
INTERFERENCE!!! Where’s the ref!?!?!
And
then he lit into her about the nursing staff’s general incompetence. The food.
His cannula site. His treatment. The temperature inside the hospital. The lack of spoons for coffee.
I was
screwed, and my luke-warm lunch of mushy peas and unidentifiable quiche tasted
of hatred and retribution.
Well
played you ornery, irate old bastard. Well played.
I
guess sometimes the best revenge happens when we don’t even know we’ve gotten
even. Perhaps this is what I get for heckling an old man, whether or not he
deserved it at the time. Regardless, I have a new nemesis.
Candace
1 Irate Old Man 1
Game
on.
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