No beds available, I guess
Any time we mention health care up here in Canada, there’s a sense of pride that we have a system, an admission that it costs a lot of money and a whispered prayer that someone will find a magic bullet to reduce the whole pyramid scheme to something we can afford. Well, perhaps not a pyramid; think of it as a really big ball carried on the backs of a collected multitude.
Until you need the system, it’s a mystery. When you need the system, same problem. Where exactly is the money going? Is there a leak in the basement? Yesterday a family member went in to the hospital for elective surgery. Show up at 09h30 for the formalities, enter the well-lit room at 11h30, roll out on a stretcher at 14h30 with the requisite gauze wrappers, head home about fifteen minutes later with instructions to stop at a pharmacy and purchase some prescribed painkilling drugs. Whoa!
The idea of staying in a hospital bed, surrounded by nurses, supping cold water and having someone crank up the bed seem to be from another era. In fact, unless there’s some life-threatening reason, nobody gets bed and board. So, who’s in the rooms? Mystery. The recovery room was here at home, the nurse was the mother and the dog was just there for comic relief (she was terrifed by the odour of fresh blood). Day surgery really exists.
Another American Idol week; we’re now into the scalpel stage, where excess flesh is carefully peeled from the bones, several pieces each evening. Within no time we’ll be down to the “real” competitions, where only the strong survive. Or those who have an in, depending on which scandal sheet you read.
Right now, my personal favourite is still doing quite well: Carly Hennessey Smithson has style. I don’t care if she’s a barkeep and tattoo artiste. Irish Ink. On the other side of the washroom it’s still too early to tell, but last night Jacuzzi Chekazie was the one with the “I’d steal his album” talent. If I start trying to Skype my votes in, slap me silly. VOIP is not meant for trivial duties.
