You know what really frosts my flakes? Staying in the hospital.
You go there to get better, and they treat sleep like it’s a dangerous side effect.
Every 30 minutes, all night long, someone’s flipping on the lights. “Just checking your vitals.” “Just drawing blood.” “Just making sure you’re still alive.”
I haven’t slept that little since I had a newborn in the house, and at least that kid had the decency to be cute.
And the food? They hand you a tray like it’s a science experiment. Mystery meat, room temperature vegetables and something they claim is pudding, but looks like spackle.
Then there’s the noise. Machines beeping, carts rattling and people talking in the hallway like it’s a coffee shop.
But the second you try to watch TV without headphones, suddenly you’re the problem.
Why does it take so long to get discharged? You’re ready to go at 9 a.m. The doctor says you’re good. The nurse agrees. But, you wait…and wait…and wait some more.
Apparently, leaving the hospital requires approval from three departments, two supervisors, a clipboard committee, and a guy named Carl who only works Tuesdays.
Hours go by. You’re sitting there dressed, bag packed, watching the clock like it owes you money.
But, the second you ask what’s taking so long, they say “We’re working on it.”
Working on what? Building me a new hospital?
And don’t forget the paperwork. You sign so many forms you start wondering if you accidentally bought the place.
Half of them say the same thing: “We have no idea what this costs, but you’re paying for it.”
And, heaven forbid, you ask for an itemized bill. That’s when they look at you like you just asked for the nuclear launch codes.
An hour later, they deliver two reams of paper with your credit card receipt.
I’m Grandpa Grumpy. Thanks anyway, but I’ll recover faster at home.