How I Joined the Elite 1% and Why it's Not All it's Cracked Up To Be - Part 2
My wife communicates telepathically with nurses
If you missed Part 1 of this series, I suggest you read it. For the uninitiated, you can do so by clicking on Part 1. The blue colour is your subtle hint of it being a link. You’re welcome.
Still Sunday, September 15
Just in time for lunch, a friendly and fortunately not too talkative porter rolled me up from the ICU to Six West, the stroke ward on the top floor of the Kelowna General Hospital. No, I hadn’t had a stroke.
Kelowna General faces the challenges many healthcare facilities face in our post-pandemic world: lack of staff and too many patients. As we entered the ward, I peeked into large rooms with beautiful views and lovely recliners for visiting family and friends.
Unlike a good guest, I hadn’t booked in advance. The nurse at reception didn’t offer me a choice of room. She didn’t offer me a room at all.
My bed was parked in stall F, in the corridor between rooms 628 and 629. A sign on the wall indicated one of the ceiling lamps had been removed August 22/22.
I was a corridor patient.
For a brief moment, the title “Life as a Corridor Patient in an Overworked, Understaffed Hospital - what are they doing with all my tax money” flashed through my mind. Then I remembered that I had arrived sans reservation. I hadn’t needed to avail myself of the permissions I had given Dr. Liability, and unlike an overbooked hotel, they didn’t refuse to take me in.
Kirsten stayed with me all day. She left shortly after I consumed my butter chicken and rice dinner. I’ll talk more about hospital food later.
Doing something I hadn’t done since I was three
After Kirsten left, I felt the urge to pee.
Like most men with BM LM on their hospital bracelet. (Born Male, Lives Male) I stand when I pee.
I stood, I peed, and I think I will soon be invited to be a guest writer on a great substack called
. He has some very cringy yet laugh-out-loud posts about the joys of student life, including an entire series called “Times I Shat My Pants”.As I stood there relieving my bladder, my bowels wanted in on the action.
“Oh shit!”, I thought without intending to be punny.
I pulled the alarm in the patients’ bathroom and poked my head out the door. A nurse with a hint of fear in his gaze emerged from one of the rooms.
He tackled the situation with calm professionalism and a bucket of bleach.
Sometimes your head tells you all is well and your body reminds you that it isn’t.
Wife → Nurse telepathy
My wife worked Monday but communicated telepathically with the nurses.
“You need to get out of bed and move more.”
“Drink plenty of water.”
“Don’t laze around.”
It was their mouths, Kirsten’s words. The nurse left me in no doubt when she said:
“You need a shower.”
Without mentioning Sunday night’s loose stool accident, I suggested I might want to change into a new gown too.
“You should wear pyjamas instead of a gown.”
When she brought the jammies and towels, I checked the back of the PJs to make sure “BC Correctional Services” wasn’t imprinted on the back. She thought I was a flight risk and issued me a prison uniform.
When she showed me the shower room, fully equipped with soap and shampoo, she apologised that there was no conditioner.
“I never use conditioner.”
“That’s what all men say.”, she replied, unsuccessfully trying to hide her eye roll.
Meals on Wheels
I told you I was going to talk about the food. It’s the number one thing everyone who survives a hospital stay talks about.
They don’t talk about the treatment, the surgery, the miracles of medicine.
They complain about the food. I’m going to start off that way too.
Breakfast on Monday morning was horrible. French toast with maple syrup, half a banana, some juice and some cereal. I wasn’t hungry. I tried a bite of the French toast. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. I ate the half banana, drank the juice, and called it a meal.
That was the last bad meal I had.
Lunch every day was soup and a sandwich, some veggies or a salad.
Dinner Monday night was a highlight. I took a picture of it to prove to my wife that she can no longer refuse my cravings for mac’n’cheese.
Mac’n’cheese is health food!!! The hospital menu said so!
Next time you’re in hospital and the meal tray doesn’t meet your expectations, consider this.
Getting a pumpkin spice latte in the morning has nothing to do with healthcare. Drink the Nescafé and thank the doctors and nurses for keeping you alive.
No matter your situation, please try to remember that you’re in a hospital, not a hotel!
This is Part 2 of a three-part series called “How I Joined the Elite 1% and Why it's Not All it's Cracked Up To Be”.
Written with the clarity of hindsight, the accuracy of a faded memory, and countless creative liberties, 87 Stories is a journal of how my gap year lasted four decades, made me an emigrant, an immigrant and gave me a life I never dreamed of.
In addition to my love for writing, I’m an educator and a consultant passionate about hotels, hospitality, and keeping people safe during their travels.
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