My husband is an impatient man.
A typical type-A personality.
Angiogram starts with the letter A. I wonder if there’s a connection because pretty much every type A personality of a certain age that I know has had one. The only exception to this is my dad who is about as laid back as an aging hippie sans the B.O. and the Ginsberg.
Anyway….chest pains = angiogram which = a hospital stay which= one unhappy camper once the procedure is over and said type A camper is forced to eat a bland diet of bone dry turkey sandwiches in a space the size of a British hotel room with shitty T.V. reception and a bed that would NOT stop adjusting itself. I won’t even go into the monitors and tubes and bells and whistles that ring and chirp and chime all night long ensuring the crappiest night sleep you can image short of a slumber party with the Marquis de Sade.
Although it was mildly amusing when my husband’s nurse told him she’d kick his ass if he didn’t stop trying to raise the bed past a 30 degree angle then threatened to strap his forehead down with surgical strength duct tape if he engaged his abdominal muscle one…more…time, he knew they meant business but tested the limits anyway. You don’t fuck with the O.R. nurses. He tried. He lost. And I’ve been picking sticky stuff off his forehead for the last two days.
When it came time to be released (Oh, happy day! No more peeing in a bottle!), there was a hitch.
The doctor didn’t show.
I begin to sweat. My face feels clammy. My breath become shallow and quick. I may need a doctor myself.
The NASCAR race is starting and the T.V. reception really sucks and all my unhappy camper can think of is 60 inches of crystal clear plasma expanse versus 20 inches of static.
“Can you hear me God? It’s me, Julie. Need a little help here.”
These people made a big mistake not giving this man of mine a specific check-out time because they said Saturday. When you tell a type A personality they can go home on Saturday…..well….that means Saturday morning. As in first thing. No…I take that back. More like first light.
Higher Power offers nothing most probably because of my past irreverent posts on organized religion.
Some people just can’t take a joke.
So we implement Plan B.
Just in case you didn’t know, you can check yourself out of the hospital.
Just remember to have your loved one unhooked from that rolling metal tower. They don’t fit in the car. Trust me on this.