Hospitals Are Scary
I just got back from the ER. Last night I was accidentally bitten by a dog while playing with it. Got my fingers too far inside a toy I was holding over his head, and when he lunged for it, his teeth punctured my right thumb a bit.
This ER wasn't SF's one and only trauma center, so I didn't have to wait long, but I did see some depressing drug-related stuff.
First, there was a middle-aged man who got into an argument with the attending physician, from whom he demanded Vicodin. The doctor told him the ER couldn't give it to him anymore, and that he would have to get it through a chronic pain physician. Apparently he's had whatever his problem is since 1977. He demanded Vicodin a couple more times, but when they wouldn't give him any, he demanded a conciliatory sandwich instead. They wouldn't give him that either, so he left in a huff.
Later, when I was sitting on the bed waiting for my antibiotic prescription to print, I overheard another patient talking with a doctor a couple beds down. He was there for an arm infection, possibly related to the methadone injections he was taking for his heroin addiction. He also admitted to being a regular user of meth and cocaine, and he had Hepatitis C. I couldn't see what he looked like, but his voice suggested he was in my age's ballpark. His voice was so meek and loaded with defeatism, it was kind of sad. What struck me most was when the doctor asked him why he started taking drugs. I expected something like depression or a traumatic event, but instead he simply replied with "curiosity," which unfortunately validated the part of my worldview that attempts to answer why people end up with their shitty lives.
The most important lesson: drugs really are bad, m'kay?
This ER wasn't SF's one and only trauma center, so I didn't have to wait long, but I did see some depressing drug-related stuff.
First, there was a middle-aged man who got into an argument with the attending physician, from whom he demanded Vicodin. The doctor told him the ER couldn't give it to him anymore, and that he would have to get it through a chronic pain physician. Apparently he's had whatever his problem is since 1977. He demanded Vicodin a couple more times, but when they wouldn't give him any, he demanded a conciliatory sandwich instead. They wouldn't give him that either, so he left in a huff.
Later, when I was sitting on the bed waiting for my antibiotic prescription to print, I overheard another patient talking with a doctor a couple beds down. He was there for an arm infection, possibly related to the methadone injections he was taking for his heroin addiction. He also admitted to being a regular user of meth and cocaine, and he had Hepatitis C. I couldn't see what he looked like, but his voice suggested he was in my age's ballpark. His voice was so meek and loaded with defeatism, it was kind of sad. What struck me most was when the doctor asked him why he started taking drugs. I expected something like depression or a traumatic event, but instead he simply replied with "curiosity," which unfortunately validated the part of my worldview that attempts to answer why people end up with their shitty lives.
The most important lesson: drugs really are bad, m'kay?