Clean, White Sheets
Just a few remarks on the state of the hospitals, before I leave off recuperation and forget this whole vestigial organ thing ever happened, not that I'll be able to until all the hair grows back, but anyway. St. Vincent's hospital is the big cheese public medical center here, getting in most of the trauma cases as well as your various dregs of society, but there weren't so many of those in evidence when we turned up a week ago this past Thursday to complain of abdominal distress. We were processed as quickly as anyone else ever is who goes to hospital via the emergency room without having turned up in an ambulance and treated kindly, efficiently, professionally by the doctors and such with whom we had contact. Not that I remember a single name or can even recall ever knowing whether any one or more of them were actually doctors. It's a little tricky because there are supervisory personnel called "registers" or "registrars" (I may have to do some research someday to discover the spelling and correct terminology), which is enough like "residents" that I have no idea what they do anyway, and I didn't get to see any even though I kept hearing about them. I think they're the top doctors on shift at any one time, with the residents and otherwise learning staff working under them. It's all beside the point, though, since really all I can mention is that the nurses (called "sisters," as in nursing sisters, I guess back from the day when hospitals were often run and staffed by religious orders) and doctors weren't just the breeze in, flip through your chart, spout some jargon and run types. They'd spend time and talk to you a bit, took an interest in you personally as well as professionally, and answered questions. They were all a bit taken aback that I was attempting to finish a Patrick White novel following my operation, but I wasn't trying too hard, as it was days before I had any real concentration back. The wards were spotless and efficiently run. Each bed had its own t.v. hung above it, which could be great so long as everyone was watching the same thing, otherwise you could end up a little taken aback by some things you thought you heard coming from the mouth of Homer Simpson: what was that he said about John Howard? Nevermind. I do think I should have said something about the accumulation of dust on the top of the telly, but it seemed crass when otherwise everything was so spotless. In any event, a week after my operation, I'm up and itchy, with no hangover from the drugs, and no pain to speak of. Since I never have to worry about my appendix again, this seems a great time to get some land out in the Blue Mountains and stock a fallout shelter, or take a job in the Antarctic, except survivalism is so passe.