After eight days of fighting, CF plucked me from my life and deposited me like a piece of trash into the hospital.
“There you will stay,” CF said, “until I am done playing with you and torturing you and making you experience the most unpleasant of situations. Let’s see what you can withstand this time.”
And so begins the latest game of bacteria and mouse with my deadly adversary, prick that it is. My days of needles and blood gases and x-rays started with all three.
CF’s first punch: an 80-year-old blind woman to draw my blood. Touché, CF. Nice touch, which she didn’t have.
In with the needle. A miss. Move it around. Explore a bit. A jab to find the lost target. Another miss. Blame the vein. “It moved.” It’s “stab the snake” time. I cry Uncle first.
New needle. She brings out the iron butterfly. Clearly, the 16-gauge was more gun than she could fire. However, she’s the master of this baby needle. What damage can she possibly cause with it? Guided by CF, she finds a way to make it feel larger, taking the long way through the layers of skin. But there is blood return. Winner, winner, hospital dinner.
Apologies for missing. All is forgiven.
If there is a victory today, it’s technology’s – Apple’s FaceTime. It makes this stretch more bearable hearing and seeing my wife and daughter. FUCF.
Reporting from a jail designed in HGTV hell, Prisoner Zero out.