The Truth About Flats and Blogs

I recently made a trip to Adena hospital in Chilicothe, Ohio to have my foot examined. I'd had trouble walking on it (trouble? full-on fucking impossible, more like it), and figured if I was going to have to stand for nine hours a night, something had to be done. Turns out it was gout, which is to say I have too much uric acid in my blood. When that happens, small crystals form in the extremities, most often the feet and toes, and makes it nearly impossible to get around. Women talk about menstrual pains, and I have no doubt that's bad (I've seen the evidence), but a woman menstruating with a bad case of gout? Lock your doors and hide the knives, kiddies, 'cause you're not getting out alive! The condition is due to overindulgence of food and drink heavy in acidic content like coffee, beer, fish, soda (pop to the mid-westerners), and even ham. When the liver fails to process the acid properly, gout forms. There are a few people in this world I truly despise, but I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on one of them (I would, in fact, wish it on ALL of them). Suffice to say, it hurts like hell. Motrin and lots of water usually does the trick, but in this case my foot had swelled to nearly double it's size, so I thought the best route was to have a doc look at the damn thing and, possibly, get a few powerful pain killers so I could actually sleep. The only hospital in Roundtown is Berger, so I made the trip to Adena in Chilicothe. (No I didn't leave out the facts about Berger Hospital... those that have been there know that what I said is all that needs saying.)

Once in the ER, I had a few very nice (and, truth be told, very attractive) nurses take my blood pressure, temperature, and even gave me a laugh when I told them how much I weigh ("How much do you weigh?" "I don't know." "180, 190?" "Ha! More like 240!" To which she gave me a look of complete and utter disbelief). The wait was minimal, despite the fact they seemed fairly busy, and soon I was sitting in a hallway waiting to be seen. Yes, a hallway. This is the simplest and yet most innovative idea I've seen in a hospital. The patients whose conditions are not severe enough to warrant a room of their own or a small curtained area with a bed are put in a nice comfortable over-sized plush chair in the hallway to await the doctor. Nice idea, huh? I'm not being facetious, I really think this is a fine way to utilize the available room and minimize the wait time for patients. Ingenious! Of course, that being said, it gives someone like me all kinds of ammo for a blog about the culturally illiterate. Yay, me! Bonus, baby!

The first example of these folks came in the form of a mother and her two kids. (Goddamn, people are going to start thinking I hate kids! For the record, I have two, and I love them both dearly... it's your kids I can't stand.) The younger, a girl of maybe six, was being seen for a sore throat. Her older brother, maybe eleven, was playing keep-away with the girl's stuffed dog, or bear, or some stupid thing... it was black, that's all I really know. He was tossing it down the hall (!) and she was sick of it. She'd run after the thing and cry "STOP IT!" at the top of her lungs. Only when a nurse or a doctor would pass by did they calm the fuck down. And mom? On her cell phone. Yep. Sitting right there talking bidness to a friend about the weekend. And people wonder why we need a blog like mine.

Next a man and his daughter are ushered into an actual waiting room. Her leg's in a cast to the knee and she's walking on crutches. Literally, the minute they hit the room, dad's standing at the door waiting. And they aren't two minutes settled when he asks a passing nurse when they'll be seen. This is the most self-centered moron I've seen lately, and remember I live in Roundtown! I've been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes and this fucking jerk-off wants to be seen immediately?! I get it, the kid's in a cast, you're playing the concerned parent, but seriously... the kid has to be seventeen, she's already got the cast on, how fucking urgent is this situation? Are you late for work? Guess what? You have a kid, daddy-o, and if this is the first time you've been late for work because of some emergency involving your kid I'd be very surprised. She certainly doesn't seem any worse for wear, she's not screaming bloody murder due to the pain, so why don't you sit your dumb-ass down and wait it out like the rest of us? It's this kind of fucking asshole that makes writing the shit I write much easier.

Last but not least (by ANY stretch of the imagination), is a fellow named Uncle Pete, his wife, and their five-year-old niece. Uncle Pete is a whale of a guy, has to weigh-in at 450 pounds if he's an ounce. He's apparently slipped on his front porch and twisted his ankle something fierce. It's turned all different shades of purple and blue. Nasty. Ouch. They're done with the x-rays and are seated behind the small divider directly behind my chair to await the results. They pass the time by entertaining the wee-one in the only way a jumbo-size wit like Uncle Pete knows how: farting. He'd let one rip and then blame it on the niece, and she'd giggle and laugh and say "That wasn't me!" They say there's nothing sweeter than the sound of a child's laughter, and I'd have to agree. Except when the laughter comes at the expense of my nasal cavaty slowing rotting away due to the stench. If you've never had the pleasure of a fucking fat man's fart, it's like nothing you've ever experienced in your life. It hangs in the air so heavy you can practically taste the fucking thing. I wish this were an exaggeration. When I'd finally been seen and carted off to x-ray myself, I could still smell it on my clothes. And the attractive young nurse who escorted me there could, too. She kept her distance, and when I turned down the offer of a wheelchair you could practically see the relief on her face. When I was returned to my comfy chair, Uncle Pete and the family were gone, but certainly not forgotten. He'd left a piece of himself behind that I guarantee will take more than Lysol to remove.

And there you have it. My trip to the emergency room reinforces the idea of the spreading problem of cultural illiteracy. They're everywhere, friends, and so we must be vigilant, as always. At the ready with a stern look or a firm word of caution to help educate. Of course, it shouldn't have to be a matter of eduacating some of these fucking people. It's an issue of common sense and courtesy, as most of the issues with the illiterates. Alas, none seems to be coming anytime soon, so our best course of action is still education. (Do I sound put-upon? I was going for put-upon, did I sound put-upon?) And to answer your question, no, I didn't say anything to any of the three examples I just mentioned. This is an emergency room, not the mall, and while I'm all for speaking up (and out), I realize there's a modicum of etiquette to be followed. A time and place for everything. And besides...

I didn't know if Uncle Pete had eaten yet.