Short man makes hospital insufferable
Small man syndrome is a very real thing. If I look back at the one or two men I have encountered in life, who have truly inspired me to go all stereotypically raging ginger, both were afflicted with the curse of the "stuck in the 5'7 to 5'8 1/2-at-a-bloody-push-and-I'm-being-generous" range.
I mean, it's difficult to blame them.
You'd be mad, too, wouldn't you, if everything was in woeful proportion?
Heaven knows I, of all people, would be upset if my shoe choices were restricted to speciality sizes only.
The reason I mention this is that, while I'm currently too medicated to pump out 500 words on bleak custard (as I write, I am literally in the back of a minicab on my way home, after waiting six hours for my discharge papers; pardon my drowsiness), life this week has been based solely around the hospital.
Which means all prior chat about life ensnared in the NHS web was just instalment uno in what appears to be a never-ending carnival of horrors.
Even more upsetting than the fact my health has prevented me from visiting both Hyde Park for Winter Wonderland and Oxford Circus to see the Christmas lights, not to mention put me in doubt for my work do as well as Christmas carols at the offie around the corner, is that I've spent the past week at the mercy of a specialist with small man syndrome.
Seriously, males that height should not be given positions of power. The only way things could get worse would be if you'd handed him an airport parking warden notepad.
I've had a finger waggled in my face, been yelled at, been talked over, stomped away from and generally left unamused.
Super professional. (Oh, and this is after some genius booked me in for an outpatient clinic I didn't need, not the surgery I turned up expecting to have, last Monday. Deep breaths Alana, deep breaths.)
The trouble is, when you've got an IV in each arm, you really are at the mercy of whoever is in charge of doling out pain relief.
I spent the weekend - yes that's right, I was stuck in a hospital during a weekend - having deeply sinister thoughts about withholding fentanyl from the little shrimp.
Dangling it above his head, just . . . out . . . of . . . reach.
I envisage an evil cackle escaping my lips - and with the meds I'm on, I swear I can almost hear it.
You just wait, I mutter under my breath, fist clenched.
You just wait for when I can walk again and all these pills don't make me fall asleep after five sec . . .
PS: Merry Christmas Southland! Enjoy the pav, backyard cricket, and the finest sunshine Oreti Beach has to offer - and a great big helping of family and friends.