So I’ve reconsidered, and now my idea of hell involves injections to my scalp purely for torture purposes. Trust me, if Satan’s minions wanna get with the times, they’ll revoke their pointed tails and pitchforks for surgical smocks and syringes.
On December 22, 2009, I blithely half-assed my way through a philosophy examination (the last one for the semester), frolicked on Maracas Beach with three other classmates and spent the night in Port of Spain General Hospital suffering from a head wound sustained when we ran off the road on the way back from Las Cuevas. And that’s because I consider myself luckier than the other backseat passenger who ended up with a broken left femur, a broken eleventh rib and a sizable swatch of skin missing from the left side of her face. Yeah…
Of course I’m thankful to be alive. Heck from what the nice doctors discussed while my laceration was being stitched up, nothing short of divine intervention saved us from the obituary pages. Blame the Catholic Church if you will, but it’s hard for me not to believe in an omnipotent being when I hear that the vehicle I was in skidded off the road, went down an incline and ended up against a pole with its roof ripped off, the front folded in and the back pushed in, with no resulting fatalities. Yet for some reason I’m still worried. It’s that niggling almost inaudible voice at the back of my mind that mocks: “you got off easy this time bitch but don’t you worry, I’ve a doozy waiting for you up ahead.” Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, right?
For what it’s worth, the staff of the accident and emergency department of the PoSGH are most efficient; particularly the nurses. The ward nurses on the other hand – those assholes should be all promptly fired and relegated to removing road-kill from the nation’s roadways as with their attitudes they should not be dealing with any living creature, whether animal or vegetable.
You know, in spite of the amount of stories you hear about people being misdiagnosed and given the wrong drugs and such, the ridiculousness only sinks in when you actually experience it. That’s why it came as little surprise to me when I was told that my file could not (and still can’t) be found. Heck I think I would have been more concerned if my stay at the hospital was completed without a hitch. You know things are bad in a country when you’re a bit relieved that the public utilities don’t work as they should.
Ah well, the twenty stitches I got are out; the nice nurses at the Arima Health Facility said I was healing well. The chick with the broken leg had surgery and is going through a painful recovery. Man, I’m just glad we all survived. Looking at the news these days, believe me, it could have been so much worse.
