The yellow band around my arm says ‘FALL RISK.’ Asked the admitting nurse how my reputation preceded me so quickly. She just looked bored.
Alternative bad jokes that later occurred to me:
- ‘A Risk for ALL Seasons’
- This armband indicates that I do not expire for six months
- No you cretin it’s a Pentagram not a Star of David! Wait. That’s my tattoo.
Will be out of this hospital bed in another hour, for the first time since surgery yesterday morning. To receive instruction on that hippest manner of perambulation: the walker. Can’t you see the potential for the Denny’s Senior Discount using one of these babies? Mmmm Eggs Over My Hammy.
Anyway, three hearty hospital meals here so far. All consisting of mystery broth, apple juice box and some kind of pseudo Jell-O which is comprised solely of 4 types of sugar, coloring, seaweed (carrageenan) and chemicals I can’t pronounce without practice.
If you can remember the Wayback Machine you’ll be able to harken back to the days of coffee dispensers. Before hospitals, airports, schools or train stations had real people making real coffee. Those old vending machines offered coffee, hot chocolate, tea or chicken soup. All choices came out the same spout at the bottom. Not all at once, unless the machine was broken. This wouldn’t make the liquids any less distasteful though. The boiling goodness shot into cheap paper cups that burned the living hell out of your hand.
The point is this: the hospital Mystery Broth tastes EXACTLY like that chicken soup of yore. Pretty sure that this hospital purchased every last container truck full of that broth/soup/salt water. They’re using it to this day.
My senses are surely heightened by the horrendous pain of surgery. Perhaps highlighted by the morphine drip, morphine button, Percocet, Xanax and Robaxin coursing through my system as I write this.
Well it’s almost time for walkers and wheelchairs. Then in about 2 months… great sex. Okay hopefully any sex. Actually I only put ‘Sex’ in the title to get your attention. And that’s MISS Post Title Whore to you.
Gotta push the button, so I’m outta here. Literally.