I Have Not Enjoyed My Stay in This Hospital Waiting RoomPosted: May 28, 2012
FIVE HOURS. Five hours of agony as my throat burned with the heat of a thousand suns that had all caught fire when spaceships crashed into them. Hours alone and neglected in the waiting room of Bridgewood Hospital. Would I die? Would I ever again see the millions of women who love me? There was no way to know.
Readers, let me tell you a tale of the torturous journey that I have made into the depths of one of the most hellacious realms known to man. Or the man that counts, e.g. me.
The day began inauspiciously enough; I awoke with a slight tickle at the back of my throat. Though I could hardly say that I was surprised that it would later pain me, I scarcely could have imagined that so slight a sensation would prove a harbinger of the most intense pain that has ever existed.
Some hours later, I emerged from my abode blinded by pain. Desperate, I struggled to crawl to my car, clutching at my throat as the demon pinpricks assaulted my uvula. Never before have I so realized the reality of the term “blinding pain,” as at least two mailboxes were lost to my front bumper as I struggled to control the car in the face of this horror. Eventually, I reached Bridgewood Hospital, hopeful that the experienced medical staff there would hold within their grasp the knowledge to relieve me from this incredible suffering, or at least perform a quick mercy-killing if they could not.
Little did I realize how wrong I was.
Obi-Wan Kenobi once referred to Mos Eisley spaceport as a “wretched hive of scum and villainy.” Little did he realize he spoke not of Mos Eisley, but of Bridgewood hospital; not of aliens, but of “doctors” and “nurses”; not of scum and villainy, but of total assholes.
A pain scale of one to ten? What the fuck is wrong with you? TEN! Ten, you dolt! I am not going to the hospital for a fucking “one”. I am not silently miming the answers to your inane questions because my throat is merely at a “one”. If anyone enters the hospital emergency room with an issue that ranks a “one” on the pain scale you have every right as a professional medical care provider to stab them with a screwdriver and to ensure that they really do need to be in the emergency room and that they are not simply wasting everyone’s time.
And so many questions! Why do you need all my personal information before you can treat me? The street I live on is not a clinical indicator of an illness. My place of work is not a test result. My phone number is not a symptom. No doctor is going to say, “Oh! You live in the five-oh-two area code! Well, you probably have appendicitis then.” At least no doctor at a competent hospital, I cannot speak for yours. There will be plenty of time to take down my personal information when I am not fucking dying.
Little did I know that I would shortly look back upon the ceaseless queries posited by this blithering ninny so fondly. Soon, this distraction lost to me, I was alone with only my boredom and my pain. On each occasion that I checked a clock I found that shorter and shorter increments of time had passed.
It is perhaps true that the face of real pain and suffering is horrifying to see; as I writhed and screamed in my hospital waiting-room chair, I caught furtive glances from several of my co-occupants, who would then refuse to return my looks, and would gradually move away from the source of the tortured moans. They simply couldn’t deal with even seeing the level of pain that I was at. That’s how bad it was.
Multiple times over my protracted five-hour stay a nurse would approach with the gall to ask me to be quiet. Can you imagine? What, ma’am, do you know of pain, precisely? Spend but a second in my shoes and you will understand the torments that can afflict one’s nervous system, and the agonies that take one to the very brink of death. Much as the universe is a place so large that the mind of man cannot properly conceive of it, so too can pain expand beyond one’s merest abilities of understanding, to such a point that its very scale may very well rival even its sensation in producing anguish and horror.
Few, if any, besides me can comprehend this level of pain. But I can. Because it was in my throat.
None of the other people waiting to be seen in the emergency room exactly jumped up to assist me, either. No brave souls leapt to their feet to demand that I be attended to. No injured hotties offered soothing massages or conciliatory blowjobs to distract from the pain.
Several of these silent accomplices to the hospital’s negligence looked as though they might well have responded with a “one” to the nurse’s previous queries. Certainly none of them looked as though they were in straits so dire as mine; to be sure none moaned or writhed nearly so much. What were their paltry reasons for joining me in these halls of pain? Being old? Mere vomiting? Broken leg?
Please, allow me to take on the role of doctor a minute. The cure for being old is death, the cure for vomiting is a cork in the throat, and a broken leg isn’t so much a condition as a symptom of being too stupid to avoid whatever you did to break it. There. Problems solved by Dr. Shaun, M-fucking-D, bitches.
Finally, after hours of wailing and contorting, the nurse summoned some attendants to assist me in getting up off the floor, where I had wound up curled into a fetal position, that most primal and vulnerable of postures. Eventually they were able to carry me to a room where a doctor could inspect me.
At this point I scarcely cared any more—I fully expected to die. And yet I continued to hope, to strive for life on some level. Because I’m a survivor.
Now of course, a nurse insisted on shoving some device down my throat to probe at whatever was wrong. Thus did the most pain I suffered in this entire ordeal come at the hands of a “medical professional”. Honestly. Just then, I was at an eleven of pain. Even an eleven-hundred. To be honest, I am glad that I vomited on her, and were I given the chance, upon passing the woman in the street I would do it again, chasing her down the sidewalk with a finger down my throat.
But all this waiting, all this torture, all this indignity and needless suffering came to a head as I finally got to see a physician some moments later. At least, I expected a proper doctor. Maybe that’s just what I was lead to believe by crappy hospital dramas on TV.
Instead of a caring, intelligent, competent doctor who made the pain go away with a wave of his magic syringe, I got cold, indifferent doctatrix whose unseemly corpulence hardly painted the picture of perfect health that one would expect from any real physician.
And strep throat, you say? No shit. I could have told you that myself 5 hours ago if I weren’t rendered unable to speak from the pain of it all. And yet I had to suffer through all that agony, negligence and—eventually—downright mistreatment, as I was “escorted” from the hospital after trying to punch that fat doctor bitch in the face when she refused me morphine.
I would never, ever, ever return to that hospital again, even if it meant that I might die in the street. And I might, just to prove a point. But right now, I don’t care. I don’t even care if they thought I was creating a disturbance. Frankly, I don’t even give enough of a shit about that godawful place to put forth enough effort to create a disturbance. I don’t even… fuck… who am I kidding, I’m going to fucking firebomb that place the first chance I get.
In the end, just another fine www.shaunshaunshaun.com article brought to you by Obamacare.