On a recent trip to Accident and Emergency, I realised how oddly people behave when they are sick. And a Friday night makes it worse! The rules, etiquette and social standards completely go out the window.
People wander around aimlessly warbling about their pain. They lose their temper over drugs, as if their lives depended on it. (Maybe they do, I wasn't quite nosey enough to find out). People shout out the names of people they met just before they got kicked out of the club and ran over, just so they're not alone. I even heard a man asking for 'the potty'.
Its worse on the wards. People wearing hospital gowns are glared at like the kid whose parents forgot 'none uniform day'. They have a tiny square clinical cubicle, and they feel such a need to personalise it and make it 'homely' for their stay, that they fill it to the brim with crossword books, bottles of cordial, photos of them holding their cat, and mints (probably because they've forgotten how to walk to the bathroom to brush their teeth since retraining onto a potty and being fed in bed).
Everyone invents their own stealth way of charging their mobile whilst ensuring it stays well hidden amongst the sheets and grapes. Because no one is sure yet as to whether mobile phones in hospital is still an actual sin.
There's a new rule I have noticed has been recently introduced. NO FLOWERS. The decor must not have been quite drab enough. And people were not quite as miserable as perhaps they should. One person had a potted plant. No pollen apparently. How unusual. This was on an elderly patients ward though. Elderly people know everything about plants. There are plants that will cure everything according to my Gran. Probably even arrogance or dyslexia.
The doctors are normally a battle. You have to be fluent in Urdu, Swedish and Cockney before you can injure yourself these days. The worst doctor I ever saw was Irish. He looked and sounded very inebriated, but I didn't ask because I wouldn't have understood his answer. I think I came home with a broken cold and a sprained chest on that occasion, but we'll never know. They don't translate accents.
You always get a cleaner or a 'not quite a nurse yet' who comes and makes friends with you. They always like your coat and come from Romania. Sometimes I wonder if the NHS have a policy to make sure that they employ someone from every country in the bloody world. I wouldn't mind if they taught them decipherable English before letting them inject me with drugs that sound like they are named after exotic musical instruments.
I am glad I'm not in hospital right now. For sure. My bed may not have a specialist corner-tucker making it every morning, but at least I know who's been sleeping in it.
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