Last night I remembered why I hated hospitals so much.
8:35 p.m., Sct. De Guia
E called saying he went straight home so he could go to the loo. He’s been shitting (excuse the term) liquid for the past 5 hours or so. Couldn’t have a bite to eat because he’s already feeling nauseated. I thought I might as well bring him food and the polymagma I have in my medicine box.
I arrived at his house. As I hurried to go to the patient’s room, I completely overlooked the drenched floor and went tumbling down the three steps. I felt the searing pain as one heavy butt fell after the other.
E took a bite of the greasy adobo courtesy of the neighborhood carinderia. His stomach did a double and he had to puke.
“Tara na, Punta na tayo ospital,” I pushed.
He didn’t have a choice.
9 p.m., St. Luke’s Medical Center
The emergency room was packed. People were sitting on these really hard, lonely chairs. Some were moaning, complaining about what joints ached. I could feel the gloominess overpowering the place. One hour of blood tests, hydration, people running about and I’ve had enough.
Tick-tock tick-tock. Still waiting for that damn nurse to show up. E has disappeared again to the men’s room to relieve himself for the nth time. Good thing this Kamasutris game on his cellphone really amuses me.
Potah, dead bat na.. Still no sign of that fucking test result.
And so it all comes down to this. I sulk.
Still sulking, Yawn.
Haven’t these people heard of this entertainment box called the television? I’ve had enough of sulking so I start to rant. I complain about having to wait for hours before they give medication to their ailing patients. About the lack of seats for their patients. About the snooty manner they treat non-patients. And this is supposed to be one of the best hospitals in the country? God help us.
Finally, the doctor approaches us and gives a shot at the medical terms involving this and that, blah blah blah.
Free at last.
I hate hospitals. Really.