Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Didi

Being in the hospital for three days is no fun. Being in the hospital for three days under the intraveinous influence of diloten and morphine is fun.
OK. Thursday night I went to writing group (holla Niblets) even though I felt like some devil had skewered me by the bellybutton. I was barely home an hour when I was whisked off to the emergency room which, if you didn't know, is a perpetual United Nations convention. First I was checked in by an Irish woman from West VA. My wonderful male nurse in the ER was a very flashy and sophisticated and KIND Pakistani whose sole mission was to keep me comfortable and sedated. He played with my hair, told me stories, arranged my johnnie, kept me comfortably drugged and could stick an IV in less time than I can clear my throat, then I had this great CHinese doctor who might be my personal guardian angel. Each and every time I go to the ER in the middle of the night, this doctor fixes things. He's stitched and soothed us all more than my own doctor has. The on call sugeon was some kind of south american, kind of Rico Suave cool, WAY too young to be a surgeon despite his spectacles, but he seemed competent anyway. So, later my nurse had me admitted to the maternity ward because they have the very best rooms, and my nurse was Russian and she had a very clever sense of humor. "Vhy should I sink you must haff baby to be in maternity vard?" HA! My tech, who took my blood and/or pressure and temp every five seconds was Mexican, the woman who brought me food even though I was on a strict order that no substance should pass my lips was Brazillian. My Surgeon AND Doctor were Indian. Of course, when I told my doctor that the diloten made me want to build a condo out of chocolate in the heart of NYC, she made me switch to demerol, which is not NEARLY as fun. But I digress. THe point is, the grimace of pain is universal. And the healing touch transcends language. We are all human.