Me and Mrs, Mrs Jones

I was prepared to love Mrs. Jones. She had Don King hair. She was built kind of like Tyler Perry on "Big Momma's House." I tried to put on a brave face when my orderly with the rat tail told me I had to leave my private room and move down the hall. Mrs. Jones was going to be the silver lining to my drug-induced cloud.

Then she opened her mouth. "Now, Sugar, you know I couldn't eat a bite. My stomach, it just huuuurts. Why don't you go down there and get me some of that Phenergan? I know, I'll push my pain pump while I wait." (Rustle, rustle, munch, munch of the potato chips hidden under the bed.)

Hold up, lady. Some people don't have their own personal oxycontin dispenser. I hadn't gotten so much as my blood drawn and she was sending the staff around on errands. If I had to be on 2% thread count hospital sheets wearing a gown and begging for ice chips, the least I deserved was the perk of some IV painkillers. Stat.

It got worse. Rat tail hooked me up with my morphine, or whatever. I settled in for my long winter's nap. Then Mrs. Jones began to beep. And beep. And beep. She explained to my perplexed mother that if she bent her arm this one way her iv beeped. Our thought was, "Well, don't bend it that way, (dumbass implied.)" But, you see, the medical staff, her friends, came running at the sound of the beeps. We went through this drill twice. The staff taught me to unhook my own iv so I could take myself to the bathroom, as Mrs. Jones wouldn't let them get to me fast enough. The beeping woke me from my little nap. I finally looked at Rat Tail, and with my best Julia Sugarbaker glare said, "Make. It. Stop."

Rat Tail took the batteries out of Mrs. Jones's iv pole. (Lick finger. Score.)

Not to be deterred from bothering me, she began to call people on her cell phone. She called Chubby. "Now, Chubby, you know I miss you, but I just can be to home. My stomach get to hurtin' me too much. I love you, Chubby."

She called friends to tell them how much she missed Chubby. I don't know about y'all, but Phenergan usually makes me too sleepy to worry about talking on the phone.

At some point in the night, she may or may not have tried to kill me. I don't know, I was asleep. When Mom arrived in the morning, Mrs. Jones was tied to the bed. (Score again.)

Aside from Mrs. Jones, the hospital stay was not that terrible. They even let me play on my facebook. I will give you these tips about the emergency room, one of the 7 circles of Hell.

1) Take a painkiller/fashion your own tourniquet/design your own splint/ before you go. You will wait for 2 1/2 hours, minimum. In the meantime, the staff will giggle in the hall. I sent out facebook pleas, such as, "Will somebody call Jewish East and tell them to stop giggling in the hall and get in here?" Unfortunately it was 2:00, so no one saw. I also muttered curses, biblical-style, upon them. "I hope your children have 76 IQs. I hope I get to tell you. I will giggle." I didn't mean it. I hope their children are fine.

2) By any means necessary, smuggle in your own water. They will treat you Terri Schiavo-style up in there. Not so much as a wet washcloth for your parched, parched lips. Take a big, big, bag and hide water in it. It's your only hope. (I really think as long as a healthcare plan is in the works, this water thing ought to go in it. The nurses must wet a patient's mouth. Politicians seem to be in the micromanaging mood just now. Maybe they'd go for it.)

3) Your pain level must never be less than five. If you think the pain may come back, but it's just hovering there, it's five. An angel nurse sent straight from Heaven told me that. From God's lips to mine. Five.