Then imagine my disconcertion to find as I sit by my Dad's bedside in this hospital that not only is the wifi network not public access, but there's no 3G access either.
So far, my analysis of the hospital cafe operation suggests that the price of £1.35 for vegetable pasties, versus £1.50 for a pork pie makes the pasties sell out fast as they represent super value for the starved visitor.
I therefore recommend an addition of 20p to the pasty price, or maintenance of the current price with much more stock being ordered each day. This will only be the optimum arrangement with a suitable cost-price percentage - I suggest no more than 25%. In any case, it's probable that a cost-plus pricing strategy is being applied, which is unsuitable and unwise in the present market-based environment.
Since my Dad was admitted to this cardiac unit, he's received excellent care, which is surprising since his last visit to this particular hospital left him screaming for help, alone in a darkened toilet cubicle at 3am and eventually falling on the floor. Though this led to the reprimand of the student nurse who was supposed to be providing him with some sort of "care" at the time, that proved of little consolation to my Dad.
Instead, whenever anybody mentioned this hospital, my Dad turns pale and crosses his arms across his chest in a sort of desperate, self-hugging posture. Well now his worst has come true and he has attained to readmission to this bizarre place.
Surprised was I therefore last night to see him trying to break the thumb of a burly, male nurse who was attempting to administer various drugs to him. My Dad's eyes were like piercing dots as he stared, but didn't recognise me. I've been here a long time now and I think his general lack of oxygen, mainly due to him repeatedly ripping off his oxygen mask, has sent him completely paranoid. He's certainly not usually the type of guy who'd try to break a nurses thumb.
"You're threatening me..." he just kept hissing at the male nurse. "You're a thug," my Dad said. No intervention from any of his family seemed to help, so they kept sedating him.
So while all this is going on and my sedated Dad is now snoozing, I'm writing the proposal for my next. Piece of groundbreaking social research entitled "A study of medical marijuana use on the service quality perceptions of medical patients." I can't wait to try to get that past the National Health Service Medical Ethics Board. There are several, potential spin-offs in the pipeline, such as:
"Medical Marijuana II: The USA Scene."
And:
"You can't analyse shit you can't get hold of: the debate to legalise weed on social research grounds."
While I'm thinking about this, I'm reading the May 2013 edition of Viz™ comic. It isn't helping. Although the headline "Death!" (Thatcher) "Diarrhoea!" (Queen) and "Desk Supplies!" made me chuckle. They did a piece on Thatcher very similar to one I did 3 or 4 years ago - mine was better.
We were huddled in the "Day Room," a space with some really old sofas, a small-screen TV and a sign ordering us to refrain from giving patients money. My Mum and sister were discussing all the possible future medical scenarios, using their encyclopedic knowledge of "ER." I've watched six seasons of "House", so I'd already arrived at a diagnosis several hours befor them, but was just waiting for them both to declare I was a genius.
My diagnosis is simple. Just worry about right now. You've 2 options: (1) fix it, or (2) feeeerkin forget it. Also, I'd let the medical people do their jobs, as they seem to pretty much know these jobs quite well, considering the number of people who must die each week on a cardiac ward. Hot nurses, though. Bored as fuck too, so they can show a man like me a good time.
Anyway, in the middle of all this I go to check on my Dad. Actually, the women sent me to check on my Dad. By the time I get to the doorway of his room, I see he's alone, and has managesd to rip off his oxygen mask once again and his blood-oxygen-thingy-number's collapsed to 60. I found out yesterday that 60 means you're basically dead in a few minutes.
When I was writing this post, I promised myself that I wouldn't be hyperbolic about any of this.
Anyway, the nurses are getting more elephant-shots to take the old guy down again, my Mum's telling my dad to put his mask back. I've grabbed my Dad's wrists to keep his hands down long enough for my Mum to push his oxygen mask back on and the nurse to get his syringe stuck in the pipe that's jammed in the back of my Dad's hand.
After the latest chemical cosh begins to take hold, I look at his face, his eyes closed and his face is finally relaxed. He looks like an old, skinny angel with thin, white hair and a handsome face. He looks more like the guy in thew photo I had displayed all thosew years ago on my shelf in my dorm room at university.
Then I remembered that my Dad had married my Mum. I knew he still loved her after 50 years. Together they'd had me and my sister and brought us up. We were all there as a family.
I started crying, but nobody noticed.
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