Monday 12 November, 2007 – 22:41 by Swannie just rambling along.
I was just sitting there, watching a taped episode of "The Unit". I like videotaping the TV. That way I can play it at my leisure, without a worry about falling asleep, and save time by fast-forwarding through the advertisements and station breaks (unless it is something particularly exciting, like the latest update on last weeks’ weather). But I needed to, eventually (and inevitably), visit the toilet.
I had a few choices. I could simply pause the tape where it was and go about my business. It would have pissed off Margaret, who was sitting there with her usual vague and upset look. Nothing unusual about Margaret looking vague: she seems to only express interest when contemplating a poker machine or a window display; the only time she generally doesn’t look upset is when she bites into something distasteful.
I could wait until the expected climax had come, and hoped it came as quick as a newlywed husband on his wedding night. If it didn’t happen soon, then it was an almost certainty that I would add yet another instance of support to my belief that incontinence pads don’t work.
Or I could wait until the inevitable advert break on the tape and switch to a normal broadcast, and hope Margaret wouldn’t notice.
Just as I was about to make a decision, the advert break occurred, and like Billy Snedden, I decided not to decide. And I didn’t have to depend on the Depends, either!
Why this came to mind was that I was also contemplating me, spread out on the lounge, carefully balanced in case I fell asleep, looking the very picture of the contented male. Except that the average contented male could just spring up when the urge approached. I couldn’t. Nope. It irks me that friends who should know better still ask when I will soon be well. I have tired of telling them that what they see is as good as it gets, and while I may fake appearing better (even to me), every day I am getting slightly worse as I pass through middle-age into maturity (isn’t maturity that stage of the ripening process where you are more appreciated the more rotted you are)?
I do sympathise with those still suffering from MRSA, and battling with the closed shop of the medical profession. I have heard some incredible stories of pain, suffering, despair and hope. Still, there is the hope of a cure and eventually getting better for them. But I have been cured of MRSA, and have to live with the unpalatable consequences until my rooted lungs give out and I sink into the final coma.
I apologise for sounding bitter. I try to hide it, but I am bitter. I try to look on the brighter side of life, making fun of everything I can. I even joke about the thankless task of bringing MRSA into consciousness, especially at a time when no one wants to be thought guilty, and no one cares to have the victims noticed. Such is life.
By the way, can anyone explain why hospital beds do not have a hole in the middle, with a Porta Potty underneath, instead of forcing patients to endure the pain and indignity of bedpans? After all, hospital gowns are already open at the back, aren’t they?