How many pockets deflate to satisfy the number of digits etched on those pieces of paper the authorities dub bills? How many hearts break at the sight of relatives and other loved ones laying helpless and pale on the white sheets of hospital beds? How many tears are shed when the doctor comes in the room to announce the time of death of a patient?
I hate hospitals. Everytime I'm instructed to pay a visit to a sick person, I'm leadened with dread. So many people I hold close to my heart have been lost within the sterilized walls of a medical institution. In more ways than one do I hold grudge against the pastel-painted buildings that strive to make things better for everyone around. Patients to be cured, families to be made smiling and carefree again.
How is one expected to react upon seeing a person rendered incapable of tending to his own needs, relying instead on others who don't even give a damn wether the he lives to see another day or even make it through this one? Then there's the infamous hospital food. The stale aroma wafting through the endless monotony of corridors is enough for me to collapse in a fit of unbridled tears. It's no wonder that sometimes you see patients getting worse after spending a certain amount of time on a hospital-food diet. When my mother told me she knew someone who deliberately found excuses to admit herself into a govenment (yes, you read right: GOVERNMENT!!) hospital, my first reaction was, "Do mine ears deceiveth me?" Seriously. And my smart retort just died on my tongue.
My recollection of being personally admitted actually falls under the category labelled "Good Memories". Comfy bed, awesome TV channels.. Food rating would be a solid 6 out of 10. Yeah, I know what I said about the my mom's friend and my stillborn comeback. Well hold on just a minute there. It was a private hospital. Yes, the one that you have to pay through your nose for an overnight admission. Yep, that one precisely. Nuff said.
But anyway, enough about food. The sight I laid eyes upon in the Paedeatrics Ward this very afternoon would be one I'd like to forget in a hurry. Picture this: a child, merely 13 months and barely able to string two words together to form a sentence, lying down with both legs held upwards and tied to a metal contraption so that she wouldn't stress out her broken thigh bone. I ask you, abuse or neglect? Bear in mind that it takes a tremendous impact to result in a fracture of that bone. If I were the mother of that child, I'd make sure the babysitter never gets another paycheck as long as she's in the same zipcode as my daugther.
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