The Things He Shattered

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 21 (v.1)

Submitted: April 12, 2013

Reads: 490

Comments: 17

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Submitted: April 12, 2013




I’m at home all day, every day. One day my parents decide to roll me out on the wheelchair. We go to the local store, but it is so cold, I am in no mood to repeat this anytime soon. I feel lonely. The only people who come by are James and Loupe. Rarely, but it’s something. Travis will text me maybe once a week if I am lucky. Just a simple ‘hi.’ Not much but at least it’s something.
I have a lot of time to think, and I come to the conclusion that I should write Brian. He used to be my closest friend and co-worker. When I was in the hospital I found out that he told my other former co-workers that I attempted to kill myself. One day Robbie told me that when Brian called him at work, he was so upset about what happened to me he was crying. This in no way makes me feel sorry for him. I decide to write him an e-mail and tell him that I am very upset with his actions. It was not a suicide attempt. Someone tried to kill me. He writes me a long email back an hour later. To summarize, it reads;
"I was told that you ‘threw’ yourself off the balcony. I am not going to tell you who told me this. I do not want to have problems with him in the future. I know in the past you had dealt with stress and other problems. I was only going by what this person told me. I will not give you his name."

Brian seems to think I’m an idiot and am unable to figure out who he’s talking about. I decide to have a word with James about this. When he comes over I bring it up and James looks confused in response.

"I never once used the word ‘threw.’ I told him you fell from the balcony, but I didn’t know what happened and you were in a coma so I couldn’t ask you."

"I completely believe you. I am familiar with Brian and his over-active imagination. He should write soap operas. It’s a shame he’s letting this talent go to waste."

I now have an incredible amount of anger towards this young man. I wish he would have just left me alone. Not only did he do absolutely nothing to help me, but he’s caused problems.

At home I write him an e-mail;
"I know James told you this, unless of course you have developed a friendship with Loupe’s 7 year old son or her brother, where you have deep conversations of this nature, which I strongly doubt. I have spoken to James. He said he never used these words but simply told you that I fell from the balcony. What I do not understand is why you gave yourself the right to call my former place of work and inform them that I tried to commit suicide."
His response in summary;
"I am very sorry that this happened to you. No one deserves this. It’s interesting to see that you simply take James’ side, and not even bother to speak to me in person. I called your old job because I would have liked you to do the same for me, so I am not going to apologize for doing this. I do wish you the best, and hope that you recover soon. This will be my last e-mail, and if I receive any further e-mails from you I will not read them but delete them before they are opened."

I am steamed. My memories from highschool have not been deleted. I remember Brian loved to gossip about anyone and everyone. I know people say that girls in general like to gossip. I have yet to meet one who does it as well as Brian.

I tell my mother about this situation because I am in a horrible mood now, and I need someone to talk to.
"Wow you have great friends. He just goes around telling lies about you."
"We took a break from our friendship like a month before this happened. He needed time to take care of his own things."

"Good. I remember he put you through a lot when you two went to highschool together, and then worked together."
"He said he only did this because he would want me to do the same for him. Basically what he is saying is that if he tried to commit suicide and landed himself in the hospital, he would want me to grab the phone and call his old job and let everyone there know that he is suicidal. If that is what he expects for me to do, then he is in for a lot of disappointment. His friends or family members can take care of that. Unlike him, I know my place."

"Well he is a bit of a drama queen. The thing is, your father and I came to visit you at the hospital one day when you were in a coma. You were held in a secluded room all by yourself, and only family was allowed to visit. So one day your father and I came by, and there, beside your bed was Brian. He didn’t say a word to us. Just kept looking at you. Then he just left. We had no idea that he would go and call your old job and tell them you tried to kill yourself."

"Only family? So even my friends were not allowed to come by? How did Brian manage to sneak in. He’s not a family member, or a friend for that matter!"

"I have no idea who let him in, or what lies he must have concocted."

The fact that this young man was allowed to visit me and just stand there looking at my disfigured, comatose body is sickening. I am not some sort of spectacle. I’m guessing hospital rules do not apply to everyone. And then he actually had the nerve to call my old co-workers and inform them that I tried to kill myself. He had no right. I feel deeply hurt.

"I’m not sure if he’s a ‘drama queen’ or a ‘gossip whore.’"
"Saying he’s a ‘gossip whore’ is putting it very lightly Karina. He doesn’t have to be one or the other. He’s both."

My father joins in.

"So he told you that he will delete your e-mails without reading them? He meddled in your business without your permission. You two were no longer friends, yet he felt he had the right to call a place you used to work for? He’s not even a friend. That’s just nosy. So basically when you brought this up to him he tells you he will not deal with it and just delete your e-mails? That speaks volumes about his character as a man."

I smile, even though I am in a dark mood. I’m hurt by Brian’s actions. I wish he didn’t dedicate his time doing this because it caused me more pain. I’m not surprised he tells me he will not say he is sorry. Saying that he is sorry would suggest he actually feels bad for hurting me.

Since I seem to be on a roll here, I decide to contact our mutual friend, Simon. He had visited me once while I was in the hospital. I haven’t heard from him in a while. The last time I had seen him was in Green Meadows, and he wished me a Happy Birthday via text message back in November. That was about 2 months ago. I send him an e-mail, and he responds quickly asking me to call him. I absolutely hate talking on the phone and try to avoid it when I can. After hesitating, I call.
I ask him where he has been. After all he hasn’t made contact with me for a few months. He tells me it’s a ‘two way street.’
"I’m sorry I was in the hospital. I’m calling now..."
"It’s just that you didn’t even wish me a happy birthday, Karina. I wished you a happy birthday."
"I’m sorry Simon... I don’t remember anyone’s birthday anymore. Just my own and my mother’s. I cannot even remember my father’s birthday."

"You forgot my birthday?!"
"I’m sorry... I bashed my head falling from the 7th floor. A lot of my memories seem to be gone"
"It was right after Christmas!"
"Happy belated birthday?"

I tell Simon that I feel that he is not being a friend, if he’s getting upset over me forgetting this. I had other things to worry about when I was in the hospital, and I am sorry if remembering his birthday was not on top of my list of concerns.

I tell him that I feel like Loupe and James are the only friends who have stayed by my side, and had not blamed me for petty things. His reply,

"Well they have to. After all, they were there the night this happened to you."
I feel very let down by this conversation. I guess I know who my true friends are. There are only a couple left, and this person is not one of them. I do not know how to respond to him, so I end the conversation.

When I limp past my parents room, I see they are lying in bed watching TV, so I tell them about the talk I have just had with Simon. My parents are very familiar with him as we have been friends since I was 14. My parents think that I am kidding. My mother says,

"He was upset you didn’t wish him a happy birthday?"
"Yeah... I wasn’t even thinking about it. I finally got out of rehab and came home after being away for months, and his birthday was like 4 days later. It really wasn’t on my mind."
"He was upset you didn’t wish him a happy birthday?"
"Yes. He wished me a happy birthday, but a month later I had forgotten his."
"What? So wait... what is he now? Like a 5 year old girl?" She turns to my father."I didn’t even know grown men can hold grudges about someone forgetting their birthdays. Do they?"
In response my father asks,
"So how old is he now?"
"Yeah that’s just strange. Even if you didn’t suffer a fall and obviously had much more important things on your mind, it would be weird for a 26 year old man to hold a grudge about you missing his birthday."
"Your friends are really shitty Karina... I hope you realize that now. Your father and I have been standing by your side, even though you had turned your back on us on more than one occasion. We still stood by your side. And where are your friends now?"

I know what she says is right. I didn’t know I could be so disappointed by my friends. I know I was a horrible teenager, attempting to establish my own life, and go against what my parents seemed to be pressuring me to do. The guilt sets in, and I know I will begin to mentally torture myself about that now. I do have a lot of time on my hands. I am also very disappointed. No one seems to comprehend the physical and mental damage I experienced living through my own murder. I guess I hoped my ‘friends’ would show me a little bit more sympathy. Or in Simon’s case, any sympathy. I decide to delete some of these people out of my life, and try to erase them from my mind.




It is the last week of January, and I stop practice walking. My ankle never hurt this much in rehab. Only a little if I stubbed a toe or something. Then again I didn’t practice walking this much. After all, I did have to hide it. I do not go near the stairwell. In this last week of January Tina begins to call me every single day. One day in the middle of the week she calls me twice. She as always tells me that I am making a huge mistake. That the consequences will be dire.

My ankle does seem to hurt a lot more now, so it is very easy for her to scare me shitless, although she has been putting in a tremendous amount of effort into convincing me to go through with the surgery. At some point I think she is beginning to see that I am starting to crack. I still tell her that I will not go through with it. She gives me a few hours, then calls to inform me that Dr. Hill himself wants to speak to me, and will be calling me later on that day. He will tell me about all of the consequences I will have to look forward to if I continue to neglect this problem.

I begin to worry. Something about all of this does not feel right.

I decide to make a pros and cons list concerning my relationship with Doctors.

Okay... pros... nothing is coming to me right now. I’ll start with the cons first then.


1. ‘Induced’ coma. All that Doctors managed to do with that was paralyze me. I could still feel absolutely everything, just couldn’t express to them the hell I was experiencing.

2. Severe allergic reaction to their antibiotics. Oops.

3. The never ending list of infections I managed to develop as a result of being kept in the hospital. Of the many, I managed to develop a bladder infection because someone insisted on shoving tubes were they did not belong. A tube does NOT belong up there! Did I get a say? Absolutely not. I was too busy being paralyzed.

4. "Cleaning" out my lungs. Why? Apparently this had to be done for some reason. I would chose death over this hell a billion... no trillion times over. I can’t think of a number bigger than trillion. Zillion? Sounds about right, lets go with that.

5. Buzz cutting my hair off. Thank you hospital staff, for making me feel like complete shit every time I look into a mirror now. This was completely useless for me, but resulted in less work for you, and that’s what’s important.

6. Not bothering to remove the collection of stitches in my abdomen and in my nose. Despite popular belief, those things do NOT dissolve.

7. Morphine pills that were religiously given to me to help deal with pain that was apparently caused by constipation. Constipation that was caused by the pills that were given to me to help deal with the pain caused by constipation etc... What???

8. Giving me a ‘new memory.’ What did I need a new memory for? Why the fuck did I need a new memory? Could it be because I kept saying a cop tried to kill me?

9. Treating me like a complete moron and sending me to a metal institution under the name of ‘rehab’. This has been the most insulting experience of my life.

10.Being given anti-psychotic pills without my knowledge.

Okay then. On to the pros...


1. Doctors who fixed my face did a very good job. Compared to other Doctors, the ones who worked on my face showed the least amount of sloppiness.

2. Doctors allowing me to keep my left eye. After everything I have lived through, losing my eye would have destroyed whatever was left of me.

3. Doctors not amputating my right leg like they had their hearts set on doing. God must have felt like giving me a break.


Looks like the ‘cons’ outweigh the ‘pros.’ Looking at this list I’ve come to realize that I have become quite bitter. In some cases I see doctors actions as being relatively cruel because of the amount of physical and emotional anguish I got to endure because of them. However, I still have a lot of faith in Dr. Hill. He has a wonderful reputation, so I assume the man knows what he is doing.

I spend a few hours in turmoil and worry, and finally Dr. Hill calls. He insists that I go through with the surgery as soon as possible. I have already put it off for way too long. I have postponed it for a month, and it’s hard for him to imagine what kind of irreparable damage I must have sustained. Simply put; if I do not have the surgery in a week’s time, it will be very likely that he will have to amputate my foot.
I ask him how he knows this will happen if the ‘bug’ he had discovered is ‘unknown.’ How do we know what kind of damage it will cause, if we don’t know what it is?

"Well... we have now been able to determine that it is strep. You have a strep infection."
It has a name now. I am scared senseless. It feels real now. I try not to cry and tell him that fine, I will have the surgery. He tells me that it is the right decision. I need this, and a lot of damage must have been sustained, but I am reassured that he’ll do everything to save what he can. He will make sure that in the upcoming Monday there will be a bed available for me. Tuesday at the very latest. He will do everything he can. He has now placed himself in the position of my savior. I am terrified. I thank him greatly. My ankle hurts badly now, and when I walk I can hear bones crack. I waited this long for the infection to grow and now it has obviously eaten away at my bones. It will probably hurt for the rest of my life because I was so stupid and waited so long. I will now be grateful if my foot can be saved.






By Friday, I am a complete mess. I can not sleep all night. I get out of bed at 5am, and wake up my parents to tell them I need to be taken to the emergency room. My ankle hurts me severely. My mother seems frightened, my father for the lack of a better word is annoyed. He says,
"Karina, you do not have an infection. I have no doubt. Don't listen to Dr. Hill. He's not concerned about you. He's going to benefit from your misfortune."

I have always trusted my father’s intuition. Especially when he is this sure about something, I do not remember him ever being wrong. But Dr. Hill’s words have terrified me senseless. They override what my father tells me.

It is Friday morning, and I have become a spectacular disaster. I get ready to take the bus to Green Meadows. My father calls into work to let them know he’s taking the day off.
On the bus, my dad takes out two bus tickets, and is told that he does not have to pay bus fare because he is my ‘porter’. He gets to ride for free. At least it is some good news, since he’s missing a day of work because of me and won’t get paid.

It is a long wait in the emergency room when we arrive, even though it is still early morning, and the hospital does not seem busy. It is still a long wait.
I am taken to a room to have my ankle scanned, and a blood test is performed, then I’m placed back into the waiting area. I let the staff know that I had been tested a month ago and diagnosed with a bone infection, I just do not remember the name of the Doctor because I have been dealing with so many. I do not want Dr. Hill’s findings to influence these test results, so I avoid mentioning him.


It is mid afternoon, when a Doctor comes to speak to me. She seems to be slightly annoyed. She tells me that she has reviewed my scans and blood work. I can see that she is looking for the right words to phrase what she wants to tell me
"Looking at these scans... I do not see anything... well, nothing that would require immediate attention. I have spoken to Dr. Hill, and he strongly recommends that you discuss the issue with him. He is familiar with your background. He has been working on scheduling a surgery for you on Monday." I can tell she wants to tell me that I am just taking up room, when there are other patients, who have actual problems. After all, Dr. Hill is looking after me already... But how did she find out about Dr. Hill? And I cannot get a second opinion it seems, because Dr. Hill has developed a monopoly on me. But how? The question leaves my mind, as soon as it enters. I am more concerned about my infected ankle.
I do not want to annoy her further, and decide to leave. I feel a little bit more calm. My father says,

"Do you know why she said she does not see an immediate problem? There is no infection Karina." I can see he is sure about this, but I am not anymore. Dr. Hill’s very persistent phone calls have convinced my otherwise. I am a worried mess. My father agrees to go along with whatever I decide to do, but only to calm me down, not because I am making a good decision.

I begin to question God. The idea of God. I had attended a catholic highschool, and I was required to take a ‘religion’ course every year. We were led to believe very pretty things such as "God never gives us more than we can handle." This is a very nice thought but in no way explains to me why so many people comit suicide. Obviously they were given something they couldn’t handle. Even if someone else could handle this specific problem just fine, the person who committed suicide obviously couldn’t bare it. I think about it, but I decide not to question it. I remember other things were said along the lines of,

"How can God forgive us, if we cannot forgive?" I remember wondering how this was even a question. We sometimes cannot forgive because we are human. Technically God is divine, so he should be able to forgive, at least do it better than human beings can. Can’t he? But I never asked. I decided to keep these questions to myself. I know it is better to not question such things. I think this may be blasphemy. But I question it now. It has been pointed out that God must be punishing me because I did have a little bit too much fun drinking my weekends away. I loved it. God did not. My parents had worried. They knew then that my behavior would lead to nothing good, and here I am. Even though technically my fall from the balcony had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I had been drinking. If this was God’s way of punishing me for displeasing him and my parents, then he seems to be very merciless, and very vengeful. Merciless, vengeful and divine is a terrifying combination, I think as I contemplate my existence. I pray that what I am going through now will not get worse when I die. Despite what my parents believe in, I cannot imagine that a place called ‘hell’ is real. I cannot imagine that there is a place worse than this. My logic refuses to believe that if God is so kind and loving, he will let hell exist.

I have been told that in time God and Satan will battle and God will naturally win. I have however forgotten what God is waiting for. I have been told that when you are sent to hell, you are sent there for all of eternity. But if God will conquer Satan, how is hell still going to exist for all of eternity? God won’t bother to close it down then?

Yes, I have a lot of time on my hands now, and this is where my mind goes.


"I thought the

Only lonely place

Was on the moon"




Monday comes around and I call Tina. She tells me that Dr. Hill did manage to find me a room and I have one hour to claim it in person. I tell her that this is in no way possible considering I live in another city. She pauses and says, "What about 3 hours?"

I tell her that that would be possible. My concern is that I will have trouble getting home. Nobody in my family drives, and I may be required to do some walking if I’m taking public transportation. She quickly tells me not to worry about it. Transportation home will be provided for me, no problem, because Dr. Hill’s main concern is my well being and he will make sure everything is taken care of. We say our goodbyes and I get ready. My father took yet another day off work so he can help me get to Toronto. I feel guilty because I know we are losing money the family needs, but I am also very desperate to keep my foot.

We take a bus to Toronto. We pass by Travis’ home. I look up into his balcony. We don’t really talk too much anymore. He messages me rarely, but it’s something, so I’ll take it. I look up at the balcony and my heart beats harder. I remember... I stood up there only a few months ago. I remember. I look out the bus window to avoid letting my parents see that tears are clouding my eyes. We pass his home. I realize I will most likely experience pain in my ankle for the rest of my life since I let the infection eat away at it, but I have hope that one day I will stand on that balcony again. With Travis. If that ever happens I think there is a possibility that I would die happy. We head to Toronto, but my heart remains on his balcony.


We leave the bus at Union Station and head to St. Frances’ hospital. It is a few minute walk, and it is cold in Toronto. I see police officers on horses. I like the horses. The men make me feel uncomfortable. They all blend into one person who’s motto is "shoot first, ask questions later."


In the hospital we go to reception. It does not take long. I am shown to my room. There are two beds, and no inhabitants. I assume the room will be all mine for the rest of the morning. This is nice. I settle in bed. I wonder how they will ‘prepare’ me for surgery. I am very scared about going through with the operation. Unfortunately, I am still very familiar with how well Doctors ‘induced’ me into a coma. What did it matter to them? I was paralyzed and was unable to scream, so I was not upsetting anyone. I am now terrified that the same thing will happen to me when I undergo this surgery. I’ll be wake and able to feel absolutely everything. I just won’t be able to do anything to stop the pain. The other option however is worse. I really do not want to lose my foot. I will take whatever risk I need to so I can avoid amputation.

My faith in the medical profession of today has already been shaken. If Dr. Hill fails me...

My parents stay by my bed, and we talk about nothing important. My father then fiddles around with the pull-out tv in my room. It only gets a weather network channel, the rest cost money. That's expected. I cannot pay anything, so I am happy I brought a book with me. It’s a relatively short novel. I have read it before in one day, and I remember really liking it but I can not remember what it was about. I know the plot line revolves around leprosy in Europe, in a past century. I estimate I will be here for three days. Today to prepare for the surgery, whatever that means. Tomorrow for the actual surgery. The day after to recover from the surgery.

My father goes out into the hallway, and then comes back to tell me he has found a TV there. So my parents roll me out and place me beside the television and I flip through the channels. There is nothing worth watching, but we sit and watch and I try to occupy my time. My parents stay for a couple of hours and then decide to leave to catch the bus home. They take me back to my room and I crawl into bed.

Right away a woman patient is brought into the same room and moved into the bed beside mine. There are two male nurses. They lift her and move her on to the bed, and from what I understand her husband is there. The curtains are drawn so I cannot see her, but my mother looks over and tells me that this woman is young and looks like my friend Anna. This Anna-look-a-like seems to be very disabled considering it takes so much physical strength to put her in a bed. It takes several minutes for them to accomplish this task, and another male nurse arrives in our doorway and says,

"We got her in the wrong room. We gotta put her in the room beside this one." So again the male nurses take several moments to collected her out of the bed and place her back on the portable bed and wheel her out into the hall, and into the correct room. This will be the first and last time I will have a roommate during my current stay here. I do not know this. I am still under the impression that space is very limited as Dr. Hill had presented this problem to me, and it was pointed out how he troubled himself to secure a room, because he cares about my well-being very much. My parents fold up my wheelchair and put it in the room closet. We kiss and hug goodbye, and they leave.

I pull out the novel I brought with me. "The Dark Light" by Matte Newth, and begin to read. The words no longer blur into each other. I read. Slower then I used to, but I am happy to have this ability back. I am still weeks away from meeting Gwen, so I still do not know how much of a ‘miracle’ it is that I actually have vision. I’m just grateful that the words are not blending into each other, so I do not lose interest.

Soon after my parents leave, a nurse that has been assigned to me comes by. She is a very friendly, attractive young black woman, and we hit it off right away. She shows me compassion. I tell her that I am in pain. My ankle hurts a lot. I tell her that I have been prescribed morphine, but it does nothing for me, only makes me constipated. She tells me that pain relief narcotics usually cause this. I tell her I wouldn’t mind that, as long as they actually took away the pain. She nods and tells me she will bring something else. I can see that she understands me. She sees me as a person. I am very thankful, and feel lucky that she has been assigned to be my nurse. She doesn’t take long. She comes back with two pills, and tells me she will bring me my next dose in 4 hours. I take them and continue reading.

After a while I lose my concentration, but I feel really good. I’m guessing the drugs are starting to kick in. The pain is still there, but now I just don’t care anymore.

Time goes by, and a man comes into my room. From what I understand he is Dr. Hill’s assistant. There is something that I really don’t like about him. With every step he takes, there is a loud clicking sound you can hear from a distance, as if he is wearing high heels or tap shoes. He talks and I study his shoes. They look like they were made out of alligator skin, and I can tell right away he takes a lot of pride in them. They look like they may have cost more than my entire university tuition. I can tell he is materialistic, so I do not like him. I have a feeling he doesn’t like me either by the tone of his voice. Our personalities clash.

He tells me that he knows I am waiting to be ‘prepared’ for surgery, but they are experiencing a very busy day today, as if this is something unusual. I’m just happy they found a room for me. If they didn’t, I would be waiting in the hallway for hours, and then return home, and come back the next day. I tell him that I understand, and that I take my sleeping pills at 8pm. I take two. He looks confused and doesn’t seem to understand why I am sharing this. I tell him to make sure the nurse doesn’t bring them too late.

"Didn’t you bring your own?"

"No, I did not bring my own." I don’t bother to tell him that I didn’t have any of my own to bring in the first place.

"Well why not? You knew you would be staying overnight." He’s becoming a little wise ass.

"Because every hospital I stayed at so far, did not allow me to bring any medication of any kind. No one was allowed to bring me medication except for nurses. And if anyone wanted to bring me anything, it would have to go through an entire process of being checked and approved."

"Well we don’t do that here."

"I had absolutely no way of knowing that. I thought all hospitals followed the same rule."

"Okay," he looks very displeased. "I’ll look through your file, and have a nurse bring the appropriate sleeping aid. We never give more than one sleeping pill. Usually we give half, but if you feel you need the entire one, we will bring it. I just have to check andsee what you can take."

"I will take a whole one, thank you, I really appreciate it".

He leaves, and I hope that I will not have to see him again. I’m happy I will get the sleeping pill.





It is around 9pm when a young male nurse comes into my room. He tells me he will be looking after me tonight. The idea of a young man mothering me is amusing , and I smile. I like him right away. I ask him about my sleeping pills, and he says if I want, he can bring those and my pain pills now. I say yes, and he asks me if I would like any water. I nod. Before, in Green Meadows I could not physically get up to get water for myself, so I would have to ask the nurses, and it was like pulling teeth most times. I am surprised he asked. It has always been me doing the asking. He leaves and comes back quickly with my medication, a pitcher of water, and a glass. He rests everything on a small portable table by my bed. I didn’t know they even had pitchers. I am pleasantly surprised. I thank the young man and I take all of my medication. He doesn’t ask me to open my mouth to do an inspection like they had done in rehab, so this is also nice. I worry that 1 sleeping pill will not do much, but I fall asleep relatively fast.


I am only asleep for a few hours when I am woken up by a Doctor. He tells me that he is here to ‘prepare’ me for the surgery.

"What? Now? It’s like 12am. "

"We were very busy today."

He then takes all of two minutes to do such things as check my blood pressure, which is always fine. He then requests to take a look at my ankle which requires surgery, so I pull back the bed sheets and move my left foot towards him. He picks up my right foot and examines it.

"It looks okay."

"Yes... it is okay. I am here for my left ankle."


"Yes, Dr. Hill found an infection in my left ankle."

"Oh..." He looks over his notes. "It says here that the infection is in your right ankle. That’ll need to be fixed."

"Oh yes. Please fix it. I’ve heard horror stories about patients going in to have a leg amputated, only to wake up from surgery and see that the wrong leg has been amputated."

"Oh, we’re not going to amputate anything."

He completely missed the point, but I am happy that he will make note to have the proper ankle operated on.

He tells me that I should not be eating or drinking anything after 3am, because I need to have an empty stomach when I go into surgery. He leaves and I drink some water because I have only a few hours left to be allowed to do this. So this was the entire ‘preparation’ process. How underwhelming.














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