It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t have to be with you for weeks on end. Just four times altogether. First right after the accident. It took us about four hours, spent in thick air without daylight, to work things out. I ran away horrified, with my right arm in plaster cast.
We met again the next day. For plaster-control, your hired goons said. OK, I found your preferences slightly awkward, but there was some attraction to it, and it only took about ten minutes. Walk in, guy looks at plaster, says “plaster ok”, and that’s it. For that I had to get up at 9 am on a Saturday.
Our next meeting took place a week later. I was not the only one after you. Well, after you – to be honest, nobody’s really after you, but many just can’t afford better company. Sounds cruel. Perhaps that’s why you are so cruel.
Plaster off within twenty minutes. Then post-plaster-control. Thick air, no daylight, paralyzed minds, and injured bodies, all around me. For four hours. You do like to control people, and you do like to keep them waiting for it, don’t you?
People are called into the doctor’s room in groups of four or five. A malicious joke: that way, it looks as if there aren’t that many people in the waiting room. Also, one gets to spend time listening to detailed stories about other people’s pain and injuries, and, on top of that, one gets the unique chance to watch how other people’s wounds are opened, taken care of, you name it. The doctor was brutal (“what, you broke your elbow? no reason not to shake hands with me!”—- arrrrghghghghgh (reaction to incredibly painful doctor handshake)).
Oh, are you cruel.
Today was our last meeting, and, frankly, I won’t continue our relationship. I’m sorry. Well, no, I’m not. It just took for about half an hour. The doctor was most friendly and concerned. In between the examination, the door to the next room opened and a nurse blasted in. “Quick”, she shouted, “get me some bandages, the boss cut himself taking off a guy’s plaster!” The laughter was muffled, but distinctly present. You do have a sense of humour, I must say.
The doctor, ah. Both him and the first doctor who looked at my broken elbow were Tyroleans, and, frankly speaking, I do have a thing for Ye Western Austrian dialect. That melody in the language. arrrrghghghg (drooling with delight). This guy had had his own elbow broken in the same way, years ago. Empathy and good advice. “You’ve got to move your arm a lot”, he said. “Turn it around”, he said. “Up to the pain threshold – and a little bit beyond”, he said. And smiled. And then I noticed what had brought us, you and me, together in the first place: not my accident (how trivial), but the unwillingness to cope with set thresholds. The fascination with going – well, just a little bit beyond. With concentration and care.
In the background, an inventive male nurse (from Thailand or so) found a way to support an elderly woman’s broken finger with some plaster construction that didn’t make her so uncomfortable like the plastic support did that she’d had had so far. She was charmed.
I was charmed.
Well, it was a nice farewell. But it was a farewell. Good-bye, municipal hospital.
Hope to see you never again.