“You Wanna See WHAT?!?”

A herd (A HERD, I TELL YOU!) of nameless doctors come in my hospital room to explain to each other what “Patient X” (That would be me!) had going for her:  I’m passing a gall stone. If that isn’t bad enough, I’m doing it without drugs because I just got here.

I haven’t been so humiliated since I was 7 years old and forced to sing a  duet with my sister in front of my entire family (a group of 26 aunts, uncles & various grandparents). Nobody laughed. They didn’t have time. Picking up their jaws was enough work for them, thank you very much. Yeah, 7 is cute but don’t think I didn’t know even then what they were thinking:

 “Become accountants, Girls.”

As to the doctors, I do believe that more than one nurse threw a look of disdain that, had that look been a dagger, would have punctuated and thereby deflated them. Each doctor in the room would have fallen over like a bowling pin. One could only hope. Let’s all hear it for nurses!

On this occasion, I was asked to raise my gown as I lay comatose in a hospital bed, otherwise known as the Torture Machine. Now I know what bed sores are. Lift my gown?  Excuse me? I expect at least dinner and a movie before I disrobe in front of a crowd. At the very least, money should be left on the bedside table. I’m not even offered introductions.

Unfortunately, my Snottiness Mode kicked in. (It’s ingrained—I gave up trying to get rid of it when I was 10.) Drugged as I am, I don’t realize  what I’m saying.

“We’re about to get pretty up close and personal. I’d appreciate an introduction first.”

I am sure the doctor I address can see the wall behind my head better than he can see me. I know this from the look of bafflement on his face like I’ve just asked for his first born child. 

The next time I have to make a hospital trip, I want to be paid.

Cash money.

A lot of money.

 Lyne Royce Copyright © 2005