You might think being in hospital isn’t very funny, but that’s just because you’ve never been in a Sicilian one.
I came in yesterday because my heart was being naughty. Apparently I have ventricular tachycardia, which is the same arrhythmia that makes professional footballers drop dead right after winning an international tournament.
“Perhaps you’re finally becoming good at sports? ” suggested my ever optimistic sister.
The only real symptom of this condition is, according to Dr. Google, sudden death. This means I am surrounded by dreadfully ill people and feel like a fraud. When my heart isn’t doing the wild fandango, there’s literally nothing wrong.
The entertainment is great though. First an Australian came in from a cruise ship with terrible pain and wearing nothing but khaki shorts and a heart monitor. The only person who could speak both English and Italian was me, so I provided interpretation services and an English lesson to the doctor from my nearby hospital bed. Crocodile Dundee had a myocardial infarction which at least one Sicilian cardiologist now knows is NOT called a “heart in fart”.
Before things had time to get dull, in strode David Beckham and Shemar Moore wearing magnificently tight prison guard uniforms. They set off the alarms on my heart monitor and it took a bald doctor and two fat nurses to calm me down.
They were watching over a violent Mafioso who may have heart disease but may be planning an elaborate prison break. Since he actually turned out to be so ill that even his tattoos all look grey, and the lock on the bathroom is broken, they have temporarily switched roles and are serving their country for the time being as Toilet Guards.
All of a sudden we got a new arrival. She moaned loudly for a couple of hours that she was dying (of cystitis) and invoked the Lord’s help. No sooner had she noticed it was lunch time than she moaned she was hungry instead. She had been waiting for food all day. ALL DAY!!! Only a Sicilian born and bred could moan this dramatically and energetically when they’re not even in the running to win an Oscar.
At this point the doctor on duty shot her in the rump with a sedative, the way vets do when they need to operate on rhinos. It was the most humane thing to do for all concerned.
Or so I thought, till she started snoring like a hippopotamus engaged in frenzied coitus. I asked Crocodile Dundee to intervene but he said you have to take the rough with the smooth on safari.
Well, I was looking forward to visiting time when Hubby came in bearing catastrophic news. While preparing me a thermos of tea he dropped it and smashed it to smithereens. I have to explain that when I was offered the hospital tea I mistook it for someone else’s urine sample. The upshot of this train of events is that I am now suffering from a severe tea deficiency and may soon have to be treated with intravenous PG Tips until my vital signs return to normal.
And it would probably help my prognosis if the prison/toilet Guards gave me a massage now and then as well. You can have David, I’m keeping Shemar for myself.