I have just gotten out of Mount Auburn Hospital after admission to their emergency room two nights ago, for reasons ultimately nonfatal and foreseeably annoying: I had gone for a routine procedure earlier that afternoon and there were complications. Seriously, I have spent many better days than the last few. I got more needles stuck in me than hours of sleep.
On the bright side, the night nurse at the emergency room was one of the most awesome people I have ever met in the medical profession. He had pins on the lapel of his lab coat for piracy and Miskatonic University, and a well-read paperback of Terry Pratchett's Guards! Guards! shoved into the pocket. He quoted The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension. He looked not unlike Dave Davenport. And I had arrived at the emergency room with only Peter S. Beagle's Salt Wine, under the delusion that I would be there only a few hours, and inevitably ran out of book before they ran out of tests to run on me; so he lent me his Pratchett when I was transferred upstairs to the hospital proper and he went off-shift. I cannot describe the extent to which this improved the following day. (My mother presently showed up with four novels by Diana Wynne Jones that I had not yet managed to read, but that wasn't until nine o'clock.) I left it at the desk for him this afternoon when I was discharged, along with the only card I could find in the gift shop that did not feature either kittens or flowers, and should I ever have the misfortune to wind up at that emergency room again in the near future, I will make sure to grab a book to bring him in return.
But between this and last week's two traffic accidents, there's got to be someone I can sue for better karma.
On the bright side, the night nurse at the emergency room was one of the most awesome people I have ever met in the medical profession. He had pins on the lapel of his lab coat for piracy and Miskatonic University, and a well-read paperback of Terry Pratchett's Guards! Guards! shoved into the pocket. He quoted The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension. He looked not unlike Dave Davenport. And I had arrived at the emergency room with only Peter S. Beagle's Salt Wine, under the delusion that I would be there only a few hours, and inevitably ran out of book before they ran out of tests to run on me; so he lent me his Pratchett when I was transferred upstairs to the hospital proper and he went off-shift. I cannot describe the extent to which this improved the following day. (My mother presently showed up with four novels by Diana Wynne Jones that I had not yet managed to read, but that wasn't until nine o'clock.) I left it at the desk for him this afternoon when I was discharged, along with the only card I could find in the gift shop that did not feature either kittens or flowers, and should I ever have the misfortune to wind up at that emergency room again in the near future, I will make sure to grab a book to bring him in return.
But between this and last week's two traffic accidents, there's got to be someone I can sue for better karma.
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