Hospitals bring out the best and the worst in people it seems. The ward I have been visiting recently is a prime example. It provides temporary respite for an elderly fat fussy gentleman without a single manner to his name. He has a regular female visitor, a neighbour or helper, perhaps a housekeeper or carer. The relationship is not one of great friendship, and definitely includes some financial component as they spend a bit of time each visit working out what is going to come out of “the account.”
Neither of them was blessed with the “whisper” gene either. This communication method is particularly useful in places like hospitals when you want to talk about financial movements or bowel movements or your genitals. Apparently though, it is not for everyone. He is rude to the nurses, the doctors and his regular visitor. In the two days he shared the ward with my son, I didn’t hear a single thank you or please.
I know more about him than I care to know, and yes that includes all the movements and the other details mentioned above. His every malady seems to be someone else’s fault, or problem. He hates the ward, the hospital, the staff and you won’t believe it but even the food is not up to scratch.
Well, guess what chubster? I have news for you, no-one wants to be there and it’s called hospital food for a reason. The doctors and nursing staff are battling to save your life. They are not turning up to work just to listen to you bitch and grizzle about things that they can’t change. (Bless those wonderful staff)
It was a great reminder to me that if you surround yourself with misery, you get miserable. My son is a terrific cheery young guy, facing a pretty tough medical challenge and being forced to listen to this egocentric fat fool is just bringing him down. And it is so important to be able to whisper.
Where is Mr T when I need him?