Thursday, January 24, 2013

This Too Shall Pass

I have never seen a group of people more obsessed with my flatulence.
I went into the hospital on Monday and believe that no less than 9 people came in and out of my room asking me whether or not I had passed gas. The first two times you get asked that question, you're like ' not yet.' 
Embarrassed not only because you are being asked such a personal question by a complete stranger, but because you haven't, you have somehow let them down. By your fourth day in the hospital you are proud of the fact that 'YES! I HAVE PASSED GAS!" and want a gold star put on the refrigerator in the nurses' lounge. 
EVERYTHING depends on whether or not you've cut the cheese and you are rewarded for your achievements. 
For instance, you are not allowed to eat anything 12 hours before surgery. It's rough and after about 9 hours you would eat a stick if they offered you one. They don't though. Not unless you've passed gas. 
After surgery, once you've left post-op, you are offered a bland liquid. 
Mmmm....bland liquid. Jusy like mom used to make.
Now, if you pass gas, you are allowed a non-clear liquid. Non-clear liquids are classified as puddings, tapioca, and JELL-O. 
After not eating now for almost 20 something hours, I was ready to play the 1812 Overture out of my ass if it would have gotten me some steak and potatoes. 
I'm not going to go into great detail about the hospital food. We all know hospital food is two levels below school cafeteria food. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Bland and steamed within an inch of its life. To steal and put a twist on a joke from Jeff Foxworthy, lifting the lid on your hospital dinner is kind of like changing a diaper. You don't know what's inside but you can pretty certain it will be awful and the last thing in the world you'd want for dinner. THAT last part was my contribution. You still get the credit, Jeff. 
 With all the drugs I've taken over the last few days, and as sketchy as my memory is, it is ironic that the one thing I remember clearly was that Tuesday's dinner was presented to me as pork. I've seen pork people, that wet, slimy thing on that plate was not pork. 
My last day in the hospital I didn't eat at all. 
I was in tremendous pain and didn't have an appetite. This didn't stop the women from the kitchen from banging on my door and dropping off (and I mean 'dropping off because here I was fresh from back surgery and one lady left my tray completely on the other side of the room) dropping off my food tray. 
It would have been more appropriate to open a slot at the bottom of the door and slide my tray across the tiled floor.
All I wanted to do yesterday was sleep. And cry. Cry and sleep. And I did manage to do both. In between knocks on my door and women dropping off food trays. I finally got tired of saying 'I didn't order a lunch. I would just like to sleep. Please give me some peace and quiet.' 
Granted I was in pain and grumpy, but I really did feel like no one was listening to me yesterday. I felt like my words were falling on deaf words. 
So. When I wanted to say something I knew they would listened to, I just farted. 

and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'  

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