TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 2 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= This is the second installment. Oh Glub, do I have a lot to write about and it hasn't even been a whole day. This place is like Keystone Kopz on Darvon; i.e., things move and are crazy but they go so slooooowly. More about that later. I was wrong about the tardbibs[tm]. We did have them at lunch. Here, again, I am getting ahead of myself. There is so much _excitement_. First off, I am not sure whether it is an old ballast transformer on the hall lights or if it is something else with a screw loose, but there is something that buzzes all night long and drives me crazy. It could also be a noisy fan in the potty room. Exhaust fans are notorious for making wierd sounds in tardfarm grogan chambers. So this dude wakes me up at quarter to six this morning and then has the audacity to lie to me and say its six o'clock. He wants to test my blood sugar. Everyone is a tard until they prove themselves otherwise. I had to ball my fists to keep him from grabbing my hand to poke my finger. I got my own lancet and poked a finger and squeezed out the drop. I let him do the dirty work of smearing the blood all over the test strip. They use a different meter here. I expect a mildly elevated afternoon reading in range 90-140. It was 60 which is a low fasting reading. In the morning I expect to see 65 to 85. It was 100. This means the track record I have established when compared to the new figures they will collect here may cause the resident sawbones to try to overmedicate me and possibly kill me. If that happens, you won't have anymore crap to read except the rantings of MCDouche. That was one. Two was the insistent feeling in my lower gutties that I needed a bedpan and to pee all at the same time. I sat up in bed and grabbed the female urinal I keep handy. I have a very small penis and so just chuck in balls and all. Less mess. The nurses get a kick out of it and it costs me nothing to sacrifice a little dignity. In return I get better treatment. Usually. I couldn't pee! Horrors! Catheter time! NOT! I rang for Nursey who came and stuck the bedpan under me. They don't mess around here. It's metal. It's cold. It's hard to sit on. I grunted. More of the same intestinal music I'd been making all night. No grogan, not even paste. I rang up Nursey again. Please give me a greased dynamite stick, I said. She sent in the med nurse who stuck her finger up my ass to lodge a Dulcolax therein. I waited two hours for something to happen. I finally exhuded a little groganpaste[tm] and a few more musical notes. That was it. Then I was overcome with the need to pee. By this time I had worked myself so far down on the bed turning this way and that for containers and fingers that I couldn't get leverage from the siderails to sit up slightly and grab the pisspot. As much misery as I was in, I was not about to pass up the opportunity to get rid of _some_ sort of baggage. I peed the bed. Three was the general lack of attention I got from my nurse. She was out throwing everybody else on the floor around, getting clothes on them and them into their tardchairs[tm] and wheelchairs. She just left me sit in my own wet and stink. I have no real experience with suppositories, so I asked her how long it takes the things to work. She said I should give it two hours. It had _been_ two hours. So I got her to help me get ready for the day. When I was finally up, it was noon and I was late for lunch. Four comes earlier but plays into three. The meds that came along with me from The ERR yesterday have disappeared. By and large this was a good thing because I wanted to discontinue most of them anyway. But I need the glyburide to control my diabetes. The new sawbones saw me last night. He seems a reasonable sort. He cancelled all my prescriptions. All my prescriptions. This morning they had no glyburide to give me. And there I was sitting on a fasting BG of 100 if you can believe their tard machine. When breakfast arrived, I sent it back. I was busy on the pan anyway. Somehow when you are blocked up like an old crypt you aren't particularly interested in shoveling it into the top, either. Sometime midmoring the pharmacy brought the glyburide. Then the med nurse made an absolute pest of herself trying to get me to swallow it when I was unable to sit up and so not choke on it. I know they want to either bore me or kill me to death. I have had my arm squeezed six times in less than twenty-four hours for blood pressure readings. I think they want to track their progress at getting rid of me. I have told the vital signs lady to Go Away. She can feel me to see if I am dead yet. Otherwise, piss off. Lunch was another slice of some farm animal, dolled-up potatoes, and an ice cream scoop of battered and bruised zucchini bits. Ew. I made do with the potato, half the meat, and the canned peach bits. The food was not the show. The crowd was. I was late and so had to sit with some really funny old ladies. One was not that old but probably about four feet tall and ninety pounds dripping wet. Whenever she dropped her spoon (which was all she ate her chopped food with) or did some other inconsequential booboo, she would yell Dammit and burst into tears for about five seconds. Then she would straighten up and go for another spoonload. Another one was old, terribly old, and tied in her chair with a belt. She kept pawing at it saying it was too tight and that it was cutting off circulation in her bad leg. The third old dear kept harping at the second one to shut up and eat and to quit making up stories. We don't have that many noisy ones, but we do have some real tards here. One went to sleep at lunch and rested his face in the Zucchini Surprise. What else can I tell you? There is another LOL nearby who, when anyone works with her to groom or dress her, yells like they are trying to kill her (they may be and I could recommend it) and then she says Goddammit sonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitch sonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitch sonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitch. Other than her, the buzz in the night, and a couple of teevees on too loud, the place is pretty calm. Once I get the staff trained to my way of doing things it may be just oodles better than The ERR. Here's to St Timmy's, Defender of the Frail and Confused! =================================================================