I was recently hospitalized for stomach issues that caused me to projectile vomit every day for a month. No exaggeration. $39,315.93 worth of stomach issues, according to the bill. Again, no exaggeration. For that kind of money the minibar should have been stocked with something other than jello and apple juice. I’m just saying. Anyway, to put to rest your first thought, I am not pregnant. The doctors tested me more than once for the issue, despite my hourly health class explaining that conventional pregnancy involves sex, and vomiting daily is not conducive to such interludes. You would think medical personnel would understand the necessary biology behind the process. If I was asked once, I was asked 50 times, “Have you had a hysterectomy or had your tubes tied?” “NO!!” And my name is not Mary, so let’s move on.
It has been 17 years since I’ve been hospitalized, the last time involving ACL reconstruction after I blew my knee out playing in the World Series. Or playing on an old lady softball team. Same thing. Anyway, my observations during my 4 days as a guest at Hotel MRSA have led me to a few conclusions:
- Nurses are the most overworked and underpaid people on the face of the earth. Period. No question. They are angels among us who willingly go to work to help heal the sick, collaterally cleaning up shit and vomit on a daily basis, all while being yelled at because they didn’t respond fast enough to a patient’s request for ice water. How would you like a job where immunizations are a prerequisite, and contracting horrible diseases from ungrateful people in awful puke- green (puke camouflage?) gowns with their asses hanging out is an occupational hazard, all while making $20-something bucks an hour? You wouldn’t like that very much. I salute the nurses of the world. You are all rock stars. Never forget that.
- Hearing “Code Blue” in the middle of the night is the creepiest fucking thing in the world. Yes, hospitals are full of death and destruction. People go there to die. People go there not intending to die and die anyway. It really sucks. But laying in bed, knowing that someone in the same building is about to have their life taken away is a horrible horrible feeling. Horrible. Makes you want to run and help them, hug their family, and run for the door. Simply horrible.
- There really is a Dr. McDreamy. He was the Attending Physician who admitted me and looked after me. He is now my third-in-line-future-ex-husband, behind several famous athletes. I may move him up a notch for fixing me, though. He kind of deserves the honor.
- My germaphobia is worse than I thought. I pretty much had my hands at my side the entire time I was hospitalized, touching only what I had to with paper towels. It got pretty tricky in the bathroom, where apparently the cleaning crews haven’t breached the threshold in months. MRSA, eboli, mad cow .. they were all screaming at me. I am an extreme germaphobe, and a hospital is my worse nightmare.
- Most of all, I learned that I never ever want to be sick again, especially to the point of landing at the doors of Club Dead. Although I am not in the worst shape of all human beings who walk this earth, I can do a lot to make myself healthier, and I will. After getting a 50,000 mile checkup and 30-point inspection, I am relieved to know that there is nothing bad growing inside of me. Nothing at all. I am very lucky. Many are not. But, in the end, those unhealthy souls who aren’t so lucky will be taken care of by the hardest working, most underappreciated people on the face of the earth: Nurses.
