November 17, 2010 1 Comment
Today I did a blog swap with my friend Andrea. (Andrea is a deranged person who made me tag this post with about every single word that appeared in it.) To see my post, click here.
Written Nov. 9 in the evening.
I’ve got hospitals and doctoring on the brain. It comes from two sources.
I went to the doctor today. I got four shots (!):
and asked my doctor a lot of embarrassing questions. Let’s just say buying a generic type of powder and prenatal vitamin is now on my to-do list.
And no, Emily and other friends, I am not preggers. You can take PVs regardless. Even my doctor, who I’m pretty sure is a man, takes them.
Also, I saw a really emotional episode of Frasier the other night that was set in a hospital:
There are three parts. Niles had to have some surgery. I cried. A lot. I practically dehydrated myself.
You, however, might not cry as much, especially if you’re not familiar with the show and how adorable Niles is.
This post’s motif will be hospitals.
I love hospitals. I know a lot of people hate them, but I think they’re lovely. You’re allowed to feel safe in a hospital. Really nice—and oftentimes very good-looking—people (see Grey’s Anatomy)
take care of you and make you want to get better. It’s like being in a non-religious sanctuary.
When I had brain surgery, I was in the ICU of
Oakland’s Children Hospital
for a number of days, and they took very good care of me. I felt unusually serene. It was creepy. I would, if I remember correctly, just spend hours sitting/laying down quietly.
And the hospital food was fucking awesome. I don’t know where y’all ate, but I loved my OCH nom-noms. I always had tomato soup (the salinity was supposed to help my healing brain or something; that, and because I was having trouble eating solid food) and cranberry juice (because I am obsessed with the concept of squeaky-clean kidneys).
I remember there was a little kid a few beds down from me. I think he had amnesia. But he could still remember who Spiderman was.
I really like cuddly little stories like that. It makes me all mushy and swelled with patriotism. If I could create a job for myself, I would be a Good Samaritan. I’d run around all day doing nice, thoughtful things for people: adding money to parking meters, helping people whose cars had broken down, etc.
Or, if I didn’t hate biology so damned much, I would be a doctor.
I would do it for the right reasons, unlike two of my cousins. I’d do it to heal patients and give hope to their loved ones. And not, unlike some people, to gain my parents’ approval and make bunches of money.
It’s glamorized, I know, but when the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy give good news to someone in the waiting room, I feel like I’ve just swallowed a pair of fuzzy socks—warm and huggly.
I think the quality of your life can be measured, in a way, by how many people visit you in the hospital before and/or after you have surgery. I want to live my life so that oodles of peeps would come visit me.
I would also visit people. If, for instance, my boyfriend/fiancé/husband (not that I have one right now) was recovering in the hospital, I would be there as often as possible, spoon-feeding him soup and holding his hand.
On a more wretched level, I think I like hospitals so much because they’re always filled with people to talk to. If you’re in a hospital, chances are, you’re not alone. You’re either being taken care of as a patient, or you’re with a group in the waiting room. If it’s the latter, all the people you’re with are sitting around, talking and munching vending machine food and sipping subpar coffee—together.
Then everyone comes to that inevitable platitude of never taking life for granted.
That concept always makes me feel guilty, because I know that oftentimes, I’m not doing as cool a thing as I want to at the moment. Which is why I’m now determined to get out more. It’s after making this kind of half-hearted resolution that a wave of loneliness usually washes over me, I turn on my computer, and I type up another blog post.
To enhance the experience that is this post, here is a super-depressing song to play over and over whenever you feel the way I do now. Don’t think for a second that I support the gender roles discussed in the lyrics: