I have just one more thing to say about the medical stuff and the hospital, and then I'm done on the subject for a while.
I said that morphine was my only comfort while I was in the hospital, but that's not entirely true. There is always a moment when I finally come out of my poor-me phase and get up the courage to stay awake. That's when I have to figure out how I'm going to get through the day without going batshit fucking crazy, because there's nothing really to do in the hospital. I read whenever I could, but I went without books that first day because I didn't have any of them until much later. But there is one thing that everyone does there: turn on the TV.
I dislike about 90% of the stuff on TV because I find it all unwatchable dreck. Reality shows and cooking shows and game shows and sitcoms and ugh. Not interested. But they get AMC and FX in the hospital, and they're usually good for something. In fact, I almost accidentally watched an episode of Negan's Friend, Daryl Dixon. I had to turn away because I'm waiting for it to be finished before I get AMC+ for a month to get that and the second season of Interview with the Vampire.
But if all else fails, there's Comedy Central and the 99% certainty that they're running an Office marathon.
They also have Turner Classics, and every once in a while I catch something really interesting there, like The Barefoot Contessa with Humphrey Bogart. This time I got to catch the last 30 minutes of the first movie to win a Best Picture Oscar, Wings. I've always been curious, and it was a pretty easy movie to follow. It centered around two WWI flying aces who are the bestest of friends. So much so that at first I thought that there might be something between the lines there. I figured, it's a silent picture. Probably not. But then one of them gets mortally wounded and is dying, and the other is clutching him tightly, saying what they have to say to each other before it's too late, their faces inches away from each other. And then, just as the one guy dies, he kisses the other. It wasn't a mere friendly kiss, but it wasn't exactly a snogfest, either. Holy shit, that's pretty good for its time. But then the guy who survived goes back to the States and marries his girl back home for a happy ending. What a rollercoaster that was!
That was at night when they usually show the silent pictures. During the day I lucked out with a Dirty Jobs marathon. I usually hate this kind of shit, but it truly is fascinating what a lot of people have to do so us surface dwellers don't have to even know about it. It helps that Mike Rowe goes into every dirty job with the same attitude I would: tell a lot of jokes, self-deprecating if possible, and hope for the best. I watched him check Canadian geese for Avian flu. By catching the goose, hiding its head behind its wing, rolling it up and sticking a Q-tip into its butthole. I didn't get to see if he had to castrate the lamb with his teeth because that's when I got my morphine shot, but I watched him watch the guy who usually does this job, uh, do it.
And of course I ran out of other stuff, so it was back to ol' reliable, The Office. It was early in the show, too, so Michael Scott was at his most Michael Scott-ish. (Insert Michael Scott doing his Sean Connery impression.)
All right. That's all out of my system for now. I'll have something completely different tomorrow. A political rant? A history lesson? A true life story? Who knows? But it won't be about my foot or the hospital. Oh! And to make sure my numbering lines up, again I'll be posting on Saturday night. And, provided I haven't died in a horrible glazing accident, I'll have Sunday morning's newsletter for you.
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