Don't Take The Blue Pill!

posted in Past Goodness on Apr 22, 2003

Hospitals…don’t you just love these models of inefficiency? I was at one the other day…or night…or morning…whatever…and I found this to be very evident. At 2 a.m. I sauntered (or dragged by my friend, I don’t remember) into the E.R. (not the one Clooney worked at ladies), and was told to sit my sick self on the bench over there until a room could be available. Then, between me blaring out random words because of my dehydration and weariness, I heard my name: “Mr. Fernando Escobar, please come back.” At least, I think that was my name. At 3 a.m. Fernando Escobar was my name dangit, and I would have pushed Hombre Escobar out of the way to get that room. But first….I was asked questions about where I live and stuff, and how old I was. Apparently when you are short on breath and pail like an albino mime, it prompts those who are going to “heal” you to ask you questions. But they gave me a little present for answering the questions correctly. It was a little bracelet with my name on it (Fernando Escobar), complimented with a cute little bar code. It made me feel like a clone. I was all warm an fuzzy inside. Once I finally got into the room I got to lay down on one of those Craftmatic Adjustable Beds complete with butcher paper sheets. I don’t remember a whole lot after that. There was a stinging sensation when the I.V. was jabbed into my hurculean vein, and I remember hearing the doctor tell me he’d be right back but I never saw him again. He must have been printing up more bar codes for the next batch of clones. I remember babbling some stuff, and I’m sorry miss nurse lady, but I think I was kind of rude to you. I really had to peepee and I didn’t want to listen to you anymore. I woke up from the horse tranquilizer they jabbed in my arm at around 5 a.m. to hear a lecture on the suppository they wanted me to take for my sickness. Um…how ’bout NO? Nothing goes ‘in’ the ‘outy’ hole. Everything about that idea is wrong. Just say it with me now: “Rectal Suppository.” Doesn’t it just give you that happy, spine tingly feel? Even the directions are jacked: “If you use rectal suppositories, keep them in a cool place.” Hello, how can they be in a cool place if they’re shoved up me bum?!? “Take off the foil wrapper just before putting the medicine in your rectum.” I’m sorry, but the day I stick something in my rectum is the day it ceases to be my rectum. Someone take it away please. I don’t want that thing back there anymore. But after that disturbing conversation (complete with a description of how the nurse had to give her son a suppository one time), I was free to leave. I use “free” lightly, because it did cost an arm and a leg, which they could have just amputated from me while I was asleep. And in the wee hours of the morning, when the roosters awaken the farmboys sleeping in the barn with the horses….my night of discomfort and strangeness came to a close.
This Musing is dedicated to Matt M. who out of the goodness of his heart took me to the hospital in the middle of the night. Thanks bro!