Hospitals are amazing. They are a lot like honey bee hives with the worker bees dressed out in scrubs, flitting from one room to another with organized precision in their imprinted routine of collecting blood pollen and administering stings where necessary. The drones are busy wheeling carts of humdrum nourishment throughout the hive and sometimes cleaning the abodes of the infirm. The queen, however, is kept nurtured in the middle of the hive seated at her protected desk surrounded by bouquets of flowers once intended for the brain dead patient in room 216. There she sits dispensing advice and direction to the swirling swarm of the hive.
Then, at the anointed hour, you can hear the shuffle of Armani shoes as the doctors make their rounds. This is a sacred time, in that miracles can often happen from just the simple touch of their stethoscopes, followed by the emotional reprieve of “Okay, you can go home.” Laying in my incommodious bed, I was able to watch the various doctors walk by my door. It was like taking a water bed ride through “It’s a small world”, at Disney. Every nationality was represented by these endorsed healers. The Middle East, India, Asia, Alabama, South American and even one from the Galapagos Islands. I couldn’t help but wonder which fence they jumped over to come here.
Hospital food is a unique cuisine in that it mostly tastes like unsalted potato pudding. Just a notch above astronaut food and two notches below Mexican prison food. I learned that hospital food came from three primary food groups; ‘yellow….brown….and Jell-O’. During feeding time, the drones always delivered your tray with a menacing smile, and right before you lifted up the domed lid that hid the food, you prayed with all your heart that this time there would be a ‘Denny’s Breakfast Skillet’ under it, with extra bacon. But, of course, once you took a peek, you realized it was gulag food.
PS.....it's nice to be back.....Charlie