Hospital 1

Short, official version of what happened yesterday: I lost my temper when I found out Ryan destroyed Middlemarch (figure what this is yourself) and was kicking things to vent my anger when I kicked the glass door. Door broke, sliced open foot, rushed to A&E, had an operation, 1/2 class came to visit, discharged at 11:30~ from Gleneagles.

Long, more insightful version of what happened yesterday: This all began with an attempt to fill a hole. A Patrick Leow sized hole in my heart. Instead I wound up making a hole in a door instead.

Those of you who know me more intimately than this blog might know how much my life revolves around a few things: books, music and films. In the recent departure of one huge aspect of my life, I have been desperately trying to fill up this hole and make it full again by OD-ing on the three, especially music since I am able to use it in tandem with others things.

So yes, Middlemarch was promised to me if I did well in my exams and she came on Monday night. Tuesday night when I came back from dinner I found her lying on the floor (brother). Wednesday morning I found out she wouldn't play music anymore and hung when I tried to switch to others things. I was raging and complaining to my father because I was 1) upset she had been hurt 2) worried it might not be repaired in time for the trip to France. My dad just laughed at me, so I got even more pissed.

As I was making a call to Nicholas for help, I was kicking things in my rage. I kicked the sofa, it was unsatisfactory. I turned and kicked the glass door. It shattered loudly just as he picked up. OH FUCK. So I ended up screaming into the phone in a mix of anger, frustration, and fear of the trouble I would be in. Father came running, screamed, and picked me up and threw me into the car.

In the car I was still screaming and crying but it was more OH FUCK I'M DEAD/WHY THE HELL DID I DO THAT rather than it being actually painful. Thank you adrenaline. Meanwhile the father was cursing like hell and alternatively screaming at me. After a while I didn't feel like crying anymore, but decided to continue or else the father might think I died or something. As he drove, I felt something on my leg flapping around and some sort of cold liquid running down the seats of the car. I decided I didn't want to open my eyes.

When I finally did, I recognised the apartment next to Gleneagles (I was lying stretched on the back seat, right leg propped over left leg) and soon my dad parked the car, picked me up and ran into the A&E holding me, yelling for help. Some people came running and I was settled into a stretcher and I started to cry again at how surreal the entire thing was/sad that I let down Elliot because we were supposed to go out/afraid of getting owned for destroying the door.

I was wheeled into a special room and there the people cleaned my foot up. The A&E doctor came in, took a peep at it and decided an Orthopedic surgeon was needed. I cried again when I thought how expensive this entire thing would be, and how much I missed Patrick. I managed to borrow a phone from a nurse because I was worried at how I left Nicholas hanging/needed to tell Elliot to cancel and then I realised a problem: I only remembered one number, and that was his. Irregardless I dialed the only number I memorised and when he finally picked up I felt like melting away and dying.

Call done, I was wheeled into the x-ray room to get an x-ray done to make sure there were no fragments left in my leg. Back in the holding room, I continued to cry when I thought of him and the upcoming trips. When the surgeon finally came, he said he needed to operate and quoted a price of $4,500, I started to cry again at how expensive it was >.< (I don't think I've ever cried so much in a day before)

Throughout the entire thing, when I wasn't crying and getting upset I was remarkably alert, to the point of making snarky observations (which I kept to myself) about my predicament and life in general. Examples: it seemed like everyone in A&E was Filipino while the nurses later in my ward were China Chinese. What happened to the Singaporeans? Also there were no 90 degree corners in the hospital, like every room was shaped like an octagon for easy turning of stretchers.

My mama and yeh yeh were waiting at the ward just as I got wheeled into it. There I changed into the hospital clothes and sat there on the bed, messaging with my phone to various people when the anesthetist came in to insert an IV. Another needle! Oh my. I ended up staring at my yeh yeh's belt (brown, silver buckle, glossy, looked cheap) as he inserted in the needle. Then he started making comments like, 'oh dear', 'where is it?' to which I started rambling rubbish about the belt and how he should keep his comments to himself. After I took off the plaster today, I found two puncture holes on my left hand >.<

I hated the IV. It gave me even more pain than my foot did.

After a while, just as I heard Cielo/class noises from outside my room, the nurse came in and started preparing me for the operation, paper booties, paper hair cap, the like. I was wheeled out and caught a few glimpses of them before being sent to the operation ward. There was more paperwork and waiting before I was wheeled into the operating theatre and the anesthetist greeted me. He is a PAP man and a patriotic Singaporean. I decided not to state my stand and appear moderate in case he messed around with my dosage of anesthesia. The nurse there (she had Maria Concepcion in her name) asked me to not kick her if I got angry. I LOL-ed.

Then they put an oxygen mask over me as PAP man inserted some stuff into my IV tube. It felt cool and menthol like (which was the last thing I remember saying).

I woke up later, body feeling like I was pumped full of lead but brain alert as ever. One of the first thing I remember saying was, "Is it over?" to a nurse, even though the ward I was in didn't look the least like the operating theatre. I saw the clock, it looked close to 6/perhaps past 6?

As I was wheeled back into my ward, my father appeared and told me that apparently I had severed tendons in my leg, and it would take 4 weeks, not 2 weeks to heal. Worse still: I can't go overseas at all. I started to cry because they were my P-replacements and I needed them to move on.

Quite ironic isn't it? Because of one P-replacement, I lost 2 other P-replacements, and it wasn't like dashing my leg through a glass door was going to bring him back to me either. If you want to look at it from a more dramatic point of view, it was like wrist cutting.

Okay I tire of this, will continue at another time.