Out Of Hospital And In To The Frying Pan

If you’re a nervous type, this is going to turn into a bit of a rant. Reader discretion advised. This was my first time in a hospital for real. For all my bad habits, I’d never had a day off work, never been sick at all. Then suddenly, heart attack and bits of scaffolding holding me together. And I’m surrounded by a load of people talking at me. I know they all mean well, but most of them are really annoying, like they don’t really live in my world and understand my problems.

Like this one nurse keeps on at me to start cooking for myself. I’ve never cooked anything more than tins of baked beans or microwaved ready-to-eat meals. But she’s showing me pictures of broccoli and telling how good it is for me like I’m suddenly going to turn into one of these pukah celebrity TV chefs. And then before you can so much as draw breath. They’ve kicked me out. I’m hoping I can hang around the hospital until this Acomplia comes out on the market, but they need the bed. So the way it went down was like this.

They put me in a wheel chair and pushed me to the ambulance — I’ve just had a heart attack so no walking around the hospital for me. Then I’m out of the doors and it all changes. With prodding like a mad cow to the slaughter, I’m encouraged to climb into the ambulance and it’s off to drop me off outside my house. Twenty minutes later, I’m on the pavement. Small dark house over there. There’s nothing in the fridge other than cans of beer. The freezer’s probably got some frozen meals in it. There may be cans of beans I can open. And over there’s the warm pub where they’ll throw pie and chips on a plate for me to eat.

So, walking like I’m suddenly ninety, I stagger across the road and into the pub. The wall of smoke hits my lungs and I’m coughing my guts out in the first empty chair I can drop into. But, I’m the hero of the hour. Everyone there’s clapping me on the back which isn’t helping the coughing at

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all. I’ve survived. They all want to see the scar on my chest. One idiot is actually tapping my chest with a spoon to see if it hits the stent and makes a clanking noise.

And where is this Acomplia when I need it? Can I go out and buy Acomplia now? And will this Acomplia actually work when I do get hold of some? Who knows!

But before you can say, "Mine’s a pint!" I have one in my right hand and a lighted cigarette in my left. And this is where the hospital’s well-meaning advice crashes into the wall of reality. How do they think people like me live their lives? Do they even know or care that I live on my own? My one failed marriage left me an ex who isn’t going to get on a bus to come round and nurse me back to health. My parents are dead. I’m an only child. What do they think is going to happen when they kick me out of hospital? How do they expect me to survive until this magic Acomplia comes along to save me. Ha! Save me!!! As if anything can save me from what I am and where I live!