No friends answering their phones. No buses without waiting for two more hours. No wedge to pay for a taxi. Nobody available so I hoofed it. Not the best idea I've ever given fruit to. I twice threw up some green liquid with white lumps ( no tomato skins or chunks of carrot ) on the walk to the bus station. Normally a ten minute walk but this time it took me thirty-five minutes. Pain and walking sit on opposite ends of the subs bench apparently. Then I threw up the same sort of green slime four times outside the door to the building where I live. Needless to say, it was a little while before I plucked up the courage of a geriatric moggy and dragged myself, very, very slowly, up the 58 steps to my apartment. I think they may well have let me out a day or two too early.
Still, it saved putting more money into a greedy, expensive hospital system. Mind you, I did have my bits shaved by a pretty nurse before the op, while another two spectated. Shame I couldn't read their minds or perhaps it's just as well I couldn't. Of course that's small (maybe that's what they were thinking ) consolation for the pain afterwards. Seems the only time my bits get handled by a woman these days is either during a bed bath or having the bloody things shaved. So, looking back, now I feel somewhat better, I suppose hospitals do have their good side.
Of course, appendectomies aren't what they used to be. There's no bloody great scar to brag about and show off down at the local. Nowadays it's done through three small holes in the abdomen. One apparently is to blow air in which I presume is to enlarge the workspace, so to speak, one to shove a camera in so the surgeon gets a clear shot of what he's ripping out and one for, well, the knife and needle I suppose. Whatever. When the plasters ( see below and I make no appologies for flashing my belly on the net ) are removed, there won't be a lot to show for the pain and suffering. At least in some countries you can earn some wedge for flogging a kidney. Naturally not if you're a newspaper hack or a detective. It takes too many whiskies to learn their trades. Probably written in their contracts somewhere.
|Not a pretty sight|