Friday, August 11, 2006
BACK IN THE SLAMMER
The last week I've been trying to forget about today's appointment.
I kept telling myself that there is no point worrying or presuming any outcome.
And I was right, as there absolutely nothing to be gained from this.
I couldn't just stop thinking about it though, anymore than someone in custody awaiting sentencing can stop thinking about his or her upcoming stint in the slammer.
And so today came.
As the appointment was at the ungodly hour of 9am, I had to get up early, shit, shower, shave and eat breakfast prior to being once again unceremoniously loaded into the transporter and whisked away to the Alfred.
A near disaster was avoided in the nick of time as I nearly left without any reading material.
Knowing how long these short appointments take ( usaully half a day ), some semi light reading material is absolutely essential if major frustration and impatience is to me avoided, as these can easily lead to more patients in the trauma department.
After a fair old wait, I was asked to come into the examination rooms by a nurse.
After another wait a doctor came in to see me.
He spent a short amount of time asking me about my injuries and I couldn't figure out why as they were all there written down in my history in front of him.
He was then interrupted and informed me that he'll be right back.
After yet more time having elapsed, another doctor comes in and start talking to me.
I had to ask:
"Who are you?''
"Oh, I'm Doctor Esser." came the reply.
Oh that's good I thought, could've been some strange bloke eh?
He then instructed yet another doctor to examine me.
So this third quack starts asking me the same questions about my injuries and I started thinking.
They have my history in front of them, a great big inch thick folder.
Can none of these people read?
Do I really want to be treated by illiterate dcotors?
After a while, the second and third doctors start discussing me and my injuries.
And all the time Dr, Esser is yawning like a Guantanamo Bay detainee after a few days sleep deprivation.
And then the crunch comes.
"We're going to have to go in and drill."
So there it is.
Whenever they decide to do the surgery, there'll be another six weeks of non weight bearing on my right leg.
So no parole for this little black duck.
Oh, my cellmate had a review today as well, he also didn't get parole and is possibly looking at more surgery.
So I guess I'm not the only one.
Me thinks there is something in the water in this room.
.
I kept telling myself that there is no point worrying or presuming any outcome.
And I was right, as there absolutely nothing to be gained from this.
I couldn't just stop thinking about it though, anymore than someone in custody awaiting sentencing can stop thinking about his or her upcoming stint in the slammer.
And so today came.
As the appointment was at the ungodly hour of 9am, I had to get up early, shit, shower, shave and eat breakfast prior to being once again unceremoniously loaded into the transporter and whisked away to the Alfred.
A near disaster was avoided in the nick of time as I nearly left without any reading material.
Knowing how long these short appointments take ( usaully half a day ), some semi light reading material is absolutely essential if major frustration and impatience is to me avoided, as these can easily lead to more patients in the trauma department.
After a fair old wait, I was asked to come into the examination rooms by a nurse.
After another wait a doctor came in to see me.
He spent a short amount of time asking me about my injuries and I couldn't figure out why as they were all there written down in my history in front of him.
He was then interrupted and informed me that he'll be right back.
After yet more time having elapsed, another doctor comes in and start talking to me.
I had to ask:
"Who are you?''
"Oh, I'm Doctor Esser." came the reply.
Oh that's good I thought, could've been some strange bloke eh?
He then instructed yet another doctor to examine me.
So this third quack starts asking me the same questions about my injuries and I started thinking.
They have my history in front of them, a great big inch thick folder.
Can none of these people read?
Do I really want to be treated by illiterate dcotors?
After a while, the second and third doctors start discussing me and my injuries.
And all the time Dr, Esser is yawning like a Guantanamo Bay detainee after a few days sleep deprivation.
And then the crunch comes.
"We're going to have to go in and drill."
So there it is.
Whenever they decide to do the surgery, there'll be another six weeks of non weight bearing on my right leg.
So no parole for this little black duck.
Oh, my cellmate had a review today as well, he also didn't get parole and is possibly looking at more surgery.
So I guess I'm not the only one.
Me thinks there is something in the water in this room.
.
