I recently set a rather unenviable personal record: eleven days in the hospital, this time for phlebitis. I'm fine now, though the experience of getting well was not without its frustrations.
For one thing, I became a reluctant expert on the process of suing somebody in small claims court. I counted no less than six different (or not-so-different) "People's Court" style programs. (Actually, there was one more that I never got around to watching, so I guess that makes seven shows per day).
And those daytime commercials are so depressing. There was no end to the Medicare plans, the fantastic vocational schools for hopeless couch potatoes, the mesothelioma lawyers, and so on.
I had no idea that the news really isn't. The same stories got recycled at noon, four o'clock, five o'clock, eleven o'clock and then even at 5:00 a.m., in case you might have forgotten while I supposedly slept soundly in my comfortable hospital bed (yeah, sure).
I must have had my perfectly normal temperature taken over fifty times, and it was nice to know my pulse was still pulsing, at least every two hours. Between the doctors, nurses and student nurses, I recounted my medical history ad nauseum. It's nice to know how "interesting" I am.
So, here I am, trying to get back into the work mode, glad I'm well, but sometimes wondering why. Eleven days and twelve nights later, I can finally appreciate the words of consolation, "at least you have your health." Well I've got most of mine, anyway, and for that I am truly grateful. Good health means never having to watch daytime TV.