Tuesday, 6 October 2009

I'm alive after my autopsy

The viral touch of an autopsy

The confusion of languages or is it the absence in near-term memory of the right word for describing something came up again. Hardly two months ago, my dad confused venereal with viral, what I had was viral but in conversation with a doctor he thought he heard venereal and here I was left to ponder what a father might think of the proclivities of his son.

Today, my ex-boss visited with a trusted ex-colleague. He had been in conversation with someone else about me and once suggested I had an autopsy rather than a biopsy.

Fine by me, because my feeling about the biopsy was like I had died and gone to heaven, so with him visiting me today, you can clearly suggest this Lazarus has come forth and is alive again ready to face new challenges with a radically new meaning to life.

Stirring the pool of the toilet

Continuing on the slightly Scriptural line, I finally decided I should go to the toilet after a few days of no bowel movement, in fact, I have to take drugs to force the activity and they done half work in my opinion, my body has conditioned itself to balance the need for that and the pain I suffer that this has levelled out to just about every 3 days.

But as I prepared I got the shoe on the right foot and balanced on my crutches just someone with their intravenous drip moveable stand got to the door, so I had to wait as I pined in pain from having my feet close to the ground and lower than my body.

When she finished, I scuttled towards the toilet only to find my ex-ward mate the 91-year old with his mobile Zimmer frame at the door, so I gave way again and pined.

The Scriptural theme relates to the cripple at the Pool of Bethesda where he had been for 38 years could not get in the pool first after the water was stirred by an angel. Jesus had compassion on him and healed him but he moaned about his inabilities he almost missed out on the real deal.

I in trying to get to the toilet did feel I might not get my turn so suddenly and then you realise how important it is to be able to do what you will with health, strength, wealth and a sense of entitlement of sorts.

Clinical spice in food

I have now concluded there is a spice in the hospital canteen called clinical spice and it is put in everything to make bread, butter, rice, potatoes, vegetables and drinks taste the same. How can anyone get well eating this stuff? It is probably the incentive to leave hospital, believe me; I’ll leave in an instant.

I have had enough of this fare, I called my friend in vain to help, I need help, the chemotherapy does affect your appetite but this fare is just plain bad, you might lose the will to chomp on anything after a while.

To add insult to injury, they forgot to give me the menu this morning, I chased after it to no avail that I ended up with no supper. When it finally came it was brown (minced beef and onions) Yuk! purple (red cabbage and apples, a Dutch delicacy) Yuk! and white (boiled potatoes); the minced beef was cold, the meal had been microwaved to heat the plate but not the food – I had the sick bag to my chest.

I hardly touched it; the dessert was bitter cookies in custard – who thinks up this revolting stuff on the day the Lord has made?

If for anything, I desperately needed home cooking else, I might well be fed through the nose. This is a hospital, they must know that smell and taste are critical to edibility and if they cannot achieve that basic task feed us all taste and olfactory repressive drugs and give us 3D goggles.

I will NOT abide this food any longer, no not any longer.

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