"You know us girls, we bruise like peaches!"

It's been a really, really long time, and I've really missed writing here, if only for myself. And as true as that is, there was always more of a motivation to write when I knew people were out there reading this. Lots has happened in.....in the past couple....years.



I dont have any idea where to start, so here's a little story for you to enjoy, particularly if you enjoy schadenfreude as muich as I do!

(I can't remember how to do any of the 'fancy' blog stuff, so bear with me.)


A little less than two years ago I had a stroke. The real deal, the no talking, walking etc. kind where you don't have to wait three months for an MRI (it took about 25 minutes, but only because I had a CT scan on the way. I loved the MRI scan incidentally, but that's another story....) So. Don't get me wrong. I love St. Michael's Hospital here in downtown Toronto. If youre sick, and especially if youre really sick, it's the place you want to be. But. St. Mikes is in the centre of downtown, and the Emergency Dept. can be a real shitshow at the best of times; homeless people, addicts, people in handcuffs etc. A real mess. I guess one of the 'best parts' about being seriously ill is getting to bypass the nightmare of the waiting room, and it's accompanying sounds, smells and sticky surfaces. Or so I thought. While I was whisked right into a room with an alarming amount of people attending to me (I'd never be the subject of nurses and doctors rushing, and around me. It was pretty scary, actually) I didn't get to bypass the stress. And it's a good thing for you.


Although the decision to admit me was made fairly quickly, after about two hours, it was more than 24 hours before I was moved from the ER to a room upstairs. It wasnt bed shortages, hospital cutbacks or bureaucratic incompetance that led to the delay, but kindness and generosity. You see my sister, who lives in Vancouver, had been alerted to the situation and had called the hospital, VISA in hand, to make sure I had a private room to convelesce in. Only later did I discover that the private room was $500/day, and had these special (and expensive) arrangements not been made I would have been in a 2 bed room, and for free. And fast.


The point is that I was in the ER for 24 hours waiting on a private room - one that, while a lovely gesture, wasnt at all necessary. And was there stress!? You have no idea, or will have some idea very shortly. And as I lay there, fed-up, scared and pretty confused, all I could do was listen, and.....jesus!


Lets see: there was the parade of drug seeking men and women, each with a crazier story then the last. It's just amazing how many people lose their full bottles of narcotics while just going about their daily lives! One particularly annoying and insistent "I'd like to speak to whoever is in charge" woman I nick-named Mrs. Jones, a name that stuck with the nurses and one they used on men and women for the rest of the night. There was the woman that was being unsucessfully held down by FOUR police officers while she screamed every bad word you can imagine. She ended-up with a Hanibal lectar mask on, tied to a chair. But I've saved the best for last, and even in my sorry state I managed to smile. Or at least half a smile.

I guess I had been finally dozing off a little despite the bright lights and sounds of people constantly being catheterized ("No, we're gonna need LOTS more lube nurse!/That's the wrong size tube!!") which I never quite 'got.' Suddenly I heard what I knew was walking, but sounded, um, bigger and clumsier. Like the way I'd imagined a giant might walk. I craned my neck, and I was right - it was a monster, about 6'5" and 220 lbs, and dressed kind of like a woman, or the way a dumb tall clumsy football player would imagine one should dress as a woman, on hallowe'en. You know, as a joke. I missed her speaking to the nurse the first time because I was having some neurological tests ("Can you touch your nose yet? Still no?") done on me and had to pay attention. But clearly I didn't miss much. Next, a nurse who was asian and about 5'5" and 95lbs went into her curtained-off area and said "I'm just here to take a little blood." Now picture the deepest voice you can imagine, saying, as she holds out an arm the size of the nurses waist "just be careful - you know, us girls, we bruise like peaches."



No. Peaches! You know, "us girls."

I had barely 'recovered' from stifling my laughter when I heard her curtain open and the (you have no idea how already fed-up) doctor enter.

"So, how can we help you today?," he asks.

"Well," James Earl Jones' voice begins, "I've been having this problem, and I went to my family doctor, but he said he couldn't look at it because it's not covered, because, you know,....because I'm a woman now."

("Oh, here we go!," thinks Peter, and I'll bet fed-up doctor as well.")

So doctor says, sounding both impatient and stressed-out "Fine. Forget about what the other doctor said. Just. Tell. Me. What. The. Problem. Is."

"Well," she begins, "and I can't tell you how nice it is to hear that. For the past few months I've had the feeling that my prostate was, you know, enlarged. And as I said my family doctor refused to even have a look, so....so I called a friend of mine, her same is Sheila - and she's straight - anyway I called her and asked her if she would you know, if she would have a look, and she, well she felt that it was bigger than it should be."

All I heard was gloves snapping off and the (now really fed-up) doctor yelling something about it "not being an emergency" and "no, no he would not 'have a look'" as he ran away. I was then wheeled away for an angiogram just in time to see here with a shocked "well, I never"" look on her face.

"So, I asked my friend Shiela....." SNAP! "If she would have a look and..." SNAP!

Pretty is as Pretty does.

Here's a couple of posts to look forward to in the coming days:

Trapped beside a man and his "service rabbit" who was even more fed-up than I was:



And me wasted after doing shots with the Hon. Barbara "NOBODY knows I'm a Jew! Haw!, Haw!," MacDougall!:




If you want to see a great show, go see Young at Heart at RTH, on July 10th. Or rent the amazing documentary of the same name. Here's the choir singing - the man singing this song was supposed to be singing this song with his friend who died the night before. It's...well you'll see. And yes, I forget how to link or embed or whatever the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gosIuO1HqEg&a=1vxcWzggidk&playnext_from=ML