I've been released from the grips of the tyranny of Jungang Hospital and into the grips of my own immobility. Laying in my room with nothing but internet access, some bread and a book, I've stayed largely under the RADAR of the outside world save for a hobbled, pathetic trek down the block to the local unfriendly Kosa Mart for some Gatorade and a candy bar (first one I've bought in maybe two years). I lay in bed with a pillow under my leg and in various postures of uncomfortability. I'm sure I smell, and unfortunately I've been instructed to not take a shower until my stitches are out on Wednesday. Looks like Teacher Smellyfuck is gon' have to bring the FeBreze to class Monday.
The rest of my time in the hospital was fine enough. It wasn't the internment camp setting I had pictured based on a late-night visit last Fall. It was actually okay. From what I gather, the only people who use hospitals on Jeomchon are the elderly and me, and it seems that 90% of them are there for severely off-putting coughs. I couldn't sleep, so I wandered the halls until about 4am carrying my copy of 1984 and standing for extended periods of time at the water fountain, drinking envelope after envelope of the divine juice (you drink water out of envelopes just in case you've never been).
The painkiller they gave me that I thought wasn't doing anything turned out to be quite effective. I only noticed this when I realized I would be charged $100 per bag and asked them to swiftly discontinue my supply. After my last wonderful dose wore off, I felt like I had in fact been sliced open and tinkered with. Not to say I was operated upon and simultaneously molested, but as my genitals were stone cold numb for about 5 hours following the anesthetic, it's entirely possible. I wouldn't be upset. Flattered, actually.
I did my best to flirt with the nurses because that's what you do when you identify as a charming and handsome man, and a foreigner to boot. Said nurses, however, couldn't give a seagulls shitebag about my wit and eyebrow wiggles and even appeared to view me as a burden. Unable-to-speak-the-language can sometimes come off as unable-to-understand-anything. I think I was a pain in the ass to be around because I didn't understand what they were instructing me to do. This MUST be why I felt the hostility, because as I mentioned before, I identify as a charming and handsome man. At the very least, I made every effort to be polite.
Total cost of the surgery? $180 (after some clueless bartering, they didn't charge me for the painkillers). That is roughly 2% of what it would have cost in the old country. I really hope to rally through and get every medical procedure I could possibly foresee in the next 40 years done in the next two weeks. But that's just silly talk, now aint it?
Lastly, Salina Soto is a gorgeous and wonderful woman living in Los Angeles. Funny as hell and I think a fast runner, too. We busted into a fair only to be politely escorted out only to politely bust back in again. So if you run into her, be cool.
Handicapped,
-LS^2
And Now...
The Aftermath.
The big fat hematoma from when they
missed the vein and filled my hand with
fluids for four hours.
Flossin' on the smokers' porch.
Haunted Hospital Hallway.
Phineas: Keeper of the Glitterchildren
Hae Jin fanning me, bringing me bread
and talking to the doctors for me.
Muchos gracias, Hae Jin.
Brefkist.
A man I made be my friend.
NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH
The hernia. So that's what's been mushin' around
when I cough/laugh/sit up/sneeze/poop/get busy...
Pop goes the weasel 'cause
the weasel goes POP!
All dunned up and meshed.
The Wall of Mutated Assholes, located
inexplicably adjacent to the reception desk.
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