Among the Stricken

Once upon an earlier time I visited two different groups of former headhunters, the Shuar in Ecuador and the Iban in Sarawak. “Former” tends to be a somewhat free-ranging word. What’s former one day may not be former the next. Even so, I emerged from both visits with my head fully intact.

The focus of this essay is not on headhunters, however. Rather, it’s on a place I recently visited that seemed more hazardous to my health than a headhunter’s habitat. A place where virtually every part of my body was affixed to a medical contraption and likewise a place where the noise of my fellow patients was literally ultra-sound. Yes, I’m referring to a hospital.

First a nurse, then a doctor, then an intern, then another doctor, then another nurse, and then another doctor performed a drive-by examination of my body parts. Finally, yet another doctor told me that I’d be obliged to spend the night in the hospital’s emergency room.

I ended up strapped to a rolling contraption called a trolley. I had to remain more or less in place or my medical wires would get entangled…or disentangled.

To answer nature’s call, I had to punch a button on a device that would alert a nurse to my desire. Then a nurse would come and remove a certain percentage of the wires.

My trolley happened to be in a hallway through which ambulance victims were transported. Some of these victims were seriously injured, while some seemed to be trying to kick the cops who were carrying their stretcher. Given the narrowness of the hallway, I ended being kicked several times myself.

In the bed adjacent to mine was a fellow who alternated snores with farts at a decibel level that suggested an endless performance of a piece of atonal music. Given that I had no choice but to listen to this composition, I remained awake for most of the night.

The other patients’ shouts and proclamations formed a sort of counter-point to the aforementioned composition. Here are some examples:

“Blast it, I’ve got to go home and feed my poodle!”

“The doctor says they’re going to amputate my brain!”

“Stuck in this crooked posture, I can’t think straight!”

“I’ve been here so long, I’m gonna get a disease named after me!”

“Stop stickin’ those thumbtacks into my body, nurse!”

“If I had the internet here, I would call my lawyer!

“Dear God, where the hell are you?”

“I’m gonna throw my fuckin’ heart monitor out the window!”

Two beds away from me a lay Finnish guy who said, “This is worse than

kalsarikannit,” which he told me means “getting drunk at home alone in your

underwear” in Finnish.

The next morning a veritable menagerie of medical employees again examined the various parts of my body. After all, certain patients sue their doctor or the hospital if they have some sort of issue that was overlooked during their visit. By the way, my own issue turned out to be a relatively modest case of A-fib (atrial fibrillation).

Upon being given a prescription and then dispatched from the hospital, I went home and wrote the somewhat curmudgeonly bog entry you’re now reading. As I was writing it, I happened to recall the time I spent with headhunters. In retrospect, how grateful I was for their etiquette.