Warning: Long post. Be careful. Not recommended for people with short attention spans.
A memory of Something Interesting: (I think so anyway, and honestly, since it’s not your blog, your opinion isn’t all that important, innit?)
Location: At the operation theatre of a nice, white hospital
People Involved: A couple of doctors, a screaming patient and me.
Stuff Which Definitely Doesn’t Happen:
- No one says ‘Oh! She’s gone into cardiac arrest!’, ‘Scalpel!’ or ‘She’s stopped breathing!’ In fact, no one speaks English at all.
- The patient doesn’t scream/thrash about/bare teeth when an injection is brought suspiciously close. Superhuman? I wonder…
- There are no beeping machines. There’s a table, horrible looking restraints, a few chemicals and a rusty cylinder of oxygen. No. No, we definitely haven’t made any progress in medicine since the sixteenth century.
- The patients don’t sleep quietly and let the doctors do their stuff. They either a) snore, b) grunt or c) scream that their _______ (substitute suitable part of the human anatomy and kindly don’t be pervert-ish, I’m watching!) is hurting, that doctors are idiots, and honestly, they did come here to mend, not feel like they’re being grinded in a grinder! (Unimaginative, but I couldn’t think of anything else and besides, being grinded in a grinder does sound painful.).
- Incidentally, doctors are idiots, so agree with long-suffering-and-wearing something-blue-and-long-and-flowy patient entirely.
Note: My mum is a doctor, but she is not an idiot. If your mum/dad is a doctor as well, they are not idiots either as long as they do not come near me with the intention of a) poking a needle into my arm or b) messing around with my teeth.
Stuff which does happen:
- You don’t feel queasy at all.
- The patient looks at you weirdly, you try to smile, discover that your muscles have stopped working and give up the attempt. Later your mum demands why you were making funny faces at poor patient.
- You don’t wear normal shoes in the theatre. You have to change into terrible rubber slippers, so, if you a) haven’t trimmed your toenails or b) have particularly ugly feet, it shows.
- You do wear normal clothes in the theatre. So, if you’re wearing your most horrible grey shirt and black-and-white checked skirt, it shows up as well, especially since the walls are white and you are um…not-so-white.
- Ooh…the doctors are pretty. So, if you a) have had an overdose of Scrubs or b) are male, worry not, angelic doctors do exist.
- Doctors tend to wander from the topic and talk about a) how their daughter just finished a particularly painful session with the dentist, b) how she’s a spoilt brat, c) how they had a party besides a dissected corpse in college (Okay, the corpse of a frog, but so what?) and d) how they wish their kid would finally turn eighteen so that they could gift her a studio apartment with a dog, take her to pubs, get her punch drunk and ensure that she’s never broke. (Okay, I made the last one up, but what’s wrong with dreaming?)
- You realize that the painkiller which the dentist gave you isn’t permanent and that having a root canal does hurt – a lot.
From the above moment, you stop noticing things and start making random noises. (Ooh, aah and ouch were pretty dominant, though I think shit, crap and f&*k might have slipped in a few times, which make your mother, the other doctors and the nurses shake their heads sadly and wonder how such words got into your vocabulary at the tender age of fifteen.)
End of memory.
I have a nice new ‘buzz off’ line that goes “If I throw a stick, will you run?’ which serves the dual purpose of a) implying that the receiver is a Rottweiler and b) that I want him to run away.
Genius, I know. I think that the world just got itself a new Einstein.
I keep touching my mutilated tooth quite often because a) it doesn’t feel like a tooth anymore; b) I don’t think that my other teeth are too fond of it and c) it feels very itchy.
I’m reading a very long (and very boring) novel by a Russian guy called Boris Pasternak. It claims to be a love story, but I’ve finished reading the first 100 pages and love hasn’t made an appearance. Sex has though, which is strange because don’t people usually fall in love before they jump into bed?
I could be wrong, which makes me feel, a) dreadfully old, b) dreadfully prudish and c) quite dreadful generally.
Hugs and kisses,
Chocoholic.
P.S. Yes. I do have a grey shirt and black-and-white check skirt. Happy?
