The hysterectomy experience started sucking when, to my vast disappointment, I discovered I hated morphine because it kept me dopey but awake all night and made me so itchy I scratched my arms and legs raw. Then, after I demanded different, non-opiate-based drugs and came out of my dope-fog, I remembered I hadn't had a cigarette for over 24 hours and forgot to put a nicotine patch on, which made me start feeling slightly hysterical. Then I also realized I hadn't eaten since the night before the surgery and was starving. All these things combined to create a perfect storm of murderous emotions.
After I not-so-nicely asked the nurse to bring me some food before I throttled someone, I was served what had to be the worst breakfast in the history of gastronomy. Gloppy porridge that was gray...GRAY, I say, and the exact consistency (and likely, taste) of Elmers Glue. Plus a container of milk. And an elf-sized cup of tea.
|I'm not even kidding when I say a bowl of Elmers would have been more appetizing than that fucking graysludge|
I could not finish my bowl of glue because it was so disgusting, so I pinned my hopes on lunch. Which turned out to be cream of mushroom soup (which I hate to begin with), also gray (Dear hospital kitchen staff: What the fresh hell are you people doing??? Gray food does not exist in nature. Also, I realize this ain't French Laundry, but holy shit, is this some kind of scam to poison me and keep me in your facilities even longer??). A side of milk and more tea for elves, and that was lunch.
At this point I'm sore as hell, still itchy and about to have a nervous breakdown from nicotine withdrawal and starvation, so I go lurching out to the nurses station, trailing IVs and catheter poles behind me and demand to know why I'm being fed pig slop. And find out apparently they have me down for an all-liquid diet by accident. The nurse must have seen all the build-up of crazy on my face and made sure I actually had a tray of real food and not glue for dinner. Of course it was also horrible, but at that point a pack of Saltines and a hunk of moldy old cheese would have been a feast, so I ate every bite of that hockey puck trying to pass as meatloaf, and wept with gratitude over the pile of re-hydrated potato flakes.
Hospital food gets 5 flaming middle fingers on the Hate-O-Meter, because I'm still pissed off about the gray glue meals