On the other side of the hospital (Part 1).

Right... I saw a few people pouring their heart, anger and soul into these blogs and although I'm no wizard in the articulation department, I felt this surge of expression coming out, but I have nowhere else to vomit, so I'll do it here!

If you're unsure of what this blog is about, it's just generally food for thought [of my day] so 1. ease back and get out your utensils, 2. don't fill up on bread and 3. tip your waiter with your own thoughts or sentiments.

Thanks

Winter Parmesan and Myself, Tortellini
On the other side of the hospital (Part 1).

It's been awhile since I last did this. These kinds of blogs, this... sense of expression purely to lay all my cards on the floor. To set them properly for my own viewing, interest and relief more than for the attention and acceptance of others. Previously maybe my blogs were, shamefully, more for the readership than for my own self-fulfillment. Thanks to Asjo I realize that now and have reverted back to where I once started, began, introduced myself more in-depth (His words can be found here and here). So cheers to him. I realize now that a blog should be more for what a person wants to express more than the reaction he wants to reel back. It's interesting that while peeing, I thought of the analogy of wanting to fart for gastric relief than one who farts for the laughs and immature giggles of others.

My day today has not been rather fruitful. In fact, I experienced an adventure I thought would be entertaining and wide-openingly new rather than one that is long, tiresome and poor. It all started lately with these double wake-ups. What is that? Well it's when you wake-up, dazed and dizzy, unsure where the hell you are and then you just plop back to sleep, letting the sun to curl you back to warmth and a slumber you've missed for only a moment. The issue is when I woke up again, the phone verbally dangled the hint that someone wanted to talk to me and so I was lured to my wakening faster than my bodily functions could react to and I found myself with a splitting eye pain I've never felt before. When I curved the angle of my body forward, my left eye was surged with this pain as if something from the inside was trying to break free. It felt strained, stuck and incapable of opening without further inducing myself with even more hurt.

It reminded me of this particular scene that always disgusts the shit out of me. Ironically, the uploader titled it as funny;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lI2raWlzZxU

Yeah... not quite for me sorry. I awoke, unsure of what to do while the person on the other end was hollering for more details as I ached in pain and regret of what the hell I did. I hung up, ran to the computer and tried to open my right eye. To do this, I had to squint my left eye, which revealed even more pain within. Tried to Google search what the hell was wrong and if there was a remedy as the pain infested even more with each passing second I paid further attention to it. I finally snagged something similar to what I believed I got and this is the response it got:

Okay so, when I wake up, I stand up quickly, (or sometimes it can be normally or slowly) I have a massive headache and my vision is wacked up. My eyes are open, and I see little dots. It's like when you close your eyes you see the little dots, yeah like those. But they are all over place and sometimes when my eyes are OPEN my eye vision goes black and the dots appear. I feel like falling down when it happens. But it just started happening a little over a few months. Any ideas what it is?

The response? The response is what really pissed me off, it's not her fault and I'm sure this is true (the bolded) part, the issue was that I couldn't see and thus couldn't click her redirected URL and left me stranded. As time went on, my eyesight blurred more and more:

I'm sorry you're experiencing this pain. Headaches really suck. Believe me, your problem is fixable; you can even fix it yourself!

I've been answering questions like this for about an hour, and I'm kind of tired of typing. Here, would you read my answer to this other question? It's about what to do to treat pain all by yourself.
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?…

By the way, I can tell where your problem is. A massive headache combined with visual disturbances is caused by trigger points in a muscle in the front of your neck called the Sternocleidomastoid. Read my answer in the link to understand what a trigger point is.

*Source: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20110326195818AAnmjp0

AS IF COPYPASTA WAS NOT AN OPTION! TIRED OF TYPING? RIGHT-CLICK AND PASTE DAMMIT! ASJFOQGFOIHAWHGJHNPIJE

I raged, considered calling an ambulance 'til I realized I wasn't comfortable paying a 70$ tab. Call me as stereotypically Jewish as my father, whatever, I'll take a taxi. Called one up, told them my name and like a dope, I didn't tell them to please come and help me downstairs (and help me get dressed). Fortunately, all my boasting of my photographic memory paid off as I was not only able to get dressed (with a tie!), but grabbed breakfast and managed to accurately estimate how many steps it takes to get to the elevator (78!). Before jumping into the taxi, I got a feel for the weather. A long-island wet morning that brought me back into my childhood. A time where my grand-mother would take me and my brother out to the "Gibson". I never realized it until now how magically serene and peaceful the whole trip was. A "Gibson", I believe, is Swiss-German for deli or market. Every time I visited my father's mother, we'd have the same lunch: paper-sized bologna, standard salami and ham sandwiches with tiny Dill Pickles and some nice baguettes. Long-Island was always the same in their spring mornings; Melancholy mist with participatory sponginess. My brother and I would get out our tricycles, despite being too old for them, and accompany her through the rocky sidewalk. The sidewalk was always fun to follow because they were pebbled and uneven due to the large oaks that would wildly disrupt and vandalize the evenness of each concrete plate, making our ride feel equivalent to an Indiana Jones film. We rode without a real care in the world, the direction was relatively simple so even though my grand-mother's feet were small, slow and never actually left the ground, our wheels could wander and trip in the misty void. We passed all sorts of movie-generated scenes: firehouse, neighborhoods, stop signs and the river. That genuine river of pure peace and tranquility. Scattered are geese, ducks and I think even an otter. Waiting for their caretaker, to come and spread fleeting bread crumbs into their mossy humid home. Drifting aside were always those two small lily pads, forever attached by natural coils no one could ever see into the imitated Monet scene. My grand-mother always took her time giving frail leftovers to those geese like they were one of her own. She had this problem of always giving too much than what she had. Giving to the poor, buying us whatever we wanted and I think back and asked why I never took advantage of that. I don't mean to imply that why I wasn't so spoiled nor why giving to the poor is a problem, but rather why I inquired to my father why my grand-mother always bought us gifts and he simply stated that that was her way of showing her love. I knew gifts were a form of portraying one's love but it seemed like her only way of giving her love to us. She would do anything for us and yes that is what grand-mothers do, but I was never comfortable with it.

The roar of passing trains indicated to us that we were near. Parked our high-rollers right in front of the door, knowing full well no one would jack a tricycle with a popper wheel nor another one that is nearly rusted to its core like a sore apple long fallen from its beloved motherly tree and headed inside. This is where my memory draws a blank, all I can remember is the boar's head stamped on a lot of products. It always repulsed me and any product stemming from it:

Seriously, what an ugly boar and who the hell uses those color choices to attract the freshness of cold cuts

In any case, headed back home, made impressions of cigarettes with my bologna and ate it joyfully. I miss those days, I miss the days where I would celebrate Easter at her house. We'd wake early, head downstairs for Saturday Morning Cartoons on the WB while my grand-mother brought us cereal and milk and we'd eat on these T.V dinner high-stand tables on couches that were triple our age. We'd be in our stretched P.Js just slurping sugared milk, a residue from the cereal our grand-mother buys just for us, laughing and giggling at cartoons and dunking our Hot Wheels into the milk for added effects! For Easter, we'd paint eggs then have "Egg Wars" where we'd bash eggs against each other's and the loser has to eat their yolk while winner gets the white goodness.

***

Wow, all this shit coming from just stepping outside and feeling the weather. Am I the only one who feels that? Who goes outside and goes: "Wow, feels like Switzerland made a pass by Montreal today!" Switzerland Summers are warm, yet there is always that gist of a windy breeze that completely relieves any form of perspiration yearning to hit some sun.

Maybe it's just me and to be honest, I'm not going to make two whole written thought-processes based on the fucking weather, that's ridiculously long, dull and off-topic.

The topic is me going to the hospital with this revering infamy in my eye. The taxi driver didn't speak English to me despite me speaking to him. He says "Quel Hopital Ze Monsieur wants?" (just "Quel Hopital" actually...), I tell him whatever one is the closest and he takes 20 minutes to get to one that only takes 7 minutes to get there. The worst part? He takes me to the "French Only here because we are prideful "true" Quebecers (ois)" when I've been speaking to him in English the whole time! I guess it was my fault for not telling him that my french is below the standard of mediocre, but more problems persist as I get there.

Paid my 11 dollar tab, 4-dollar tip for 1. not jacking my credit and 2. accompanying me to the E.R entrance where I get slapped with the smell of used condoms. Blown back, I suck up the pain and take a peek at what kind of place I'm looking at: cheap condom-colored walls, chairs camouflaged with the wall and littered with equally depressive people. Some homeless, some clearly asleep and others just in utter pain hoping to be serviced.

It's my first time in the hospital, at least on this side. I used to go to the hospital a lot back in Jersey because my father's a cardiologist. However, I never see or know how the E.R or hospital in general works. I'm either stuffed in the doctor's lounge at the Cookie Place (Freehold Hospital, we call it the cookie place because the secretary's fill the jars up with cookies [a lot of fucking cookies: Fig Newtons, Oreos, Peanut Butter ones, Vanilla. Sadly you have to get there fast otherwise the fat PH.Ds snag all the good ones with their milk!] ) or with the nurse's workplace at Jersey Shore. I hated Jersey Shore because it was 1/2 hour farther from home and the Nurse's never left me alone. Always asked the same questions that I saw on my registration form when getting in line to be serviced at the hospital: Name, Age, Who was my Daddy, What do I like to do (not talk to you, but I always said coloring), What's my favourite animal (Elephant, but I always said dog for some reason). etc. etc. Then they would cheer-leader my father with his work as he passed by and parade him with how cute his curly-haired green-eyed child was (I had green eyes back then). You can tell he liked the attention, but he always hated the nurses and how incompetent they were at following charts (then again, his writing is unbelievably terrible which makes one ask why the nurses didn't ask for his age considering he writes like a toddler on Ritalin).

I hated going to the hospital because it meant time spent sitting around waiting, doing nothing while the girls (my sisters, we are four children, so it'd be the boys with my father and the girls with my mother; usually at home or where she worked as a medical secretary, but they got to roam around and do other shit). However, I look back now and I miss it or rather I miss the time my father would chime the words: "Ready to go?" and I'd bounce off my seat, set as hell to get the hell out of here and to go do something "man-like". Playing video-game demos at Toys R Us, buying sushi at the Grocery Store (not exactly manly, but I was introduced to sushi via the California Roll) or hell, just driving. He'd sing to Johnny Cash, withering the song's beauty to a botch of poetic words and I'd kick his seat to get him to stop, to save my ears from going deaf so quickly, after all I've been through with those nurses!

I miss those times where the moments didn't matter, because it was just the boys dicking around. I looked back at those times as I sat on this blue chair. Wreaking of a liquid not so clear in coloring or in H20 specifically, eyes tightened shut and luggage of memories unraveling to the front of my thoughts...

*(this is Part 1 because I have to get some shut-eye)

On the other side of the hospital (Part 1).

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