I must say, Katy Memorial Hermann Hospital will certainly be my hospital of choice henceforth. There’s something strangely unique about this place to which every other facility I’ve had the pleasure of visiting seem to pale in comparison.

Everything is extremely organized.
Typical scenario for most other hospitals: In the cramped waiting area, roughly eight patients are sitting restlessly; 1/3 of these patients, in desperate need of immediate treatment, are most likely bleeding profusely from one or more of their body parts. The background melody consists of wailing babies and quarrels between the frantic patient and the receptionist. Behind the receptionist, insurance validity reviewers bustle about with papers in one hand and multiple phones in the other, with conversations between the auditor and the insurance companies serving as the principal cacophony. Now, past the reception hall, expeditious physicians play musical chairs with patients’ rooms. Painful crying, nervous laughing, and leery yelling can be heard here.

The nurses are delightfully friendly, too. Our conversations lasted well over 2-hours prior to the procedure and consisted of topics on my studies, their recent vacation locales, Tokyo’s technologically advanced society, one of the nurses’ son’s accomplishments in life, and a lariat of equipment cables dangling from the ceiling that they’ve been trying to convince the doctors to relocate so that the area would become more aesthetically pleasing for patients. One of the nurses tirelessly apologized for possibly inducing pain as she inserted an IV into my veins. A newly washed hospital gown was given to me as well as new slipper socks, a garment cover, and oven toasted blankets. I felt more hedonistic at this hospital than at home.

Excursus: I’m not sure who came up with the idea to furnish each patient’s ceiling with a different illuminated, natural landscape picture but he/she is simply brilliant.

I really wanted to slur nonsense, “Wezza kappla wonky? Goo lamooshka yabba baaa. HeeeeeeeeHeeeeeeeeee,” when the nurses asked me if I was feeling all right after having administered the sedatives just to see their reaction, but alas, I feared a chaotic uprising would errupt whilst I, dozing off to unconsciousness, was strapped down to a table with 5 different wires running around and through me and surrounded by computer monitors above, below, and to both sides. (Hm, did I leave out any prepositions?)

Interestingly, I don’t recall any part of the procedure. I only remember the doctor coming into the room and, then, being carted back out into the recovery room. Where’d those 45 minutes of my life go? I asked one of the nurses whether I was awake during the procedure or not, and she said I was talking the entire time. What? When? Huh? Perhaps this is justification enough that I should never drink to the point of intoxication — I would wake up the next morning not knowing how and to where my hair and eyebrows had disappeared.

Alas, I am dreadfully tired so I shall depart for bed early tonight. Au revoir!

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