I was operated on at 10.30am-ish on Tuesday morning.
It was about an hour's procedure.
I woke from the anaesthetic about 1pm.
And then spent a night in a very crowded recovery room, wall-to-wall with heaving, old-men bodies.
The poor man directly to my right (we were divided by a small curtain, but probably only 1.2 metres apart) managed to vomit up two litres of bile in the wee hours of the morning. I'm not kidding. It was horrific.
The guy to my left was clearly practicing for the upcoming bum trumpet tournament. And managed to follow through.
The chap diagonally opposite had bled right through his pyjamas and was snoring like I've never heard a human snore.
It was quite unsettling for a first time hospital-goer.
Had it not been for the nice old man across the way who picked up my Powerade bottle after I'd knocked it on the floor and the lovely 76-year-old Stan who came to talk to me (he was lonely and a little nervous of his upcoming procedure) I'd have left fairly depressed about the whole decay of the human body and spirit thing that was going on that night.
Pee
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