The pain! The Pain!! THE PAIN!!!

Here we can see John-the-Screamer reloading his batteries, to make sure that he is in top form for his nightly performance. A true professional.

I knew that there was something unusual about him after about... right away actually.
He came back from radiology in his bed on the day I joined the rest of the apostles in St Michael's ward and was complaining about the pain. There was a lot of little screams and grunting and puffing while they transferred him from his radiology bed to his bed bed.
Then the song began: "Nurse. Nurse. Nurse! NURSE!!! The pain, the pain, the paiiiiin!!! Oh jeezus, the pain. THE PAIN!"

Then the nice meals man arrived (the man was nice, the meals were fine) and John-the-Screamer craned his neck to see what was on the menu. He ate his roast chicken and mash methodically, buttered his bread carefully, slurped his tea noisily, scraped the last bit of yogurt in the plastic pot obsessively.
Once the last atom of yogurt had noisily been licked off his upper lip, the next verse of the song began: "Doctor. Doctor. Doctor! DOCTOR!!! The pain, the pain, the paiiiiin!!! Oh jeezus, the pain. THE PAIN!" (at this postprandial stage he had obviously lost faith in nurses and was turning his ear-splitting lament towards the doctors).

The bedtime ritual was pretty much the same.
Lights off signaled the beginning of the Pain Song. Painkillers were administered. Then 20 minutes later, more frenetic pressing of the buzzer, coupled with "nurse!"-sounding shrieks.
Upon arrival of the panicked nurse on duty, J-t-S asked sheepishly if he could get a cuppa tea. I was half expecting her to grab an extra pillow, place it over his face and press down extra hard until the arrival of the day shift nurses...
But no, she went to get him a cup of tea. And some biscuits. That was beyond the call of duty. The biscuits were! Why such zeal? I had to listen to him slurp noisily on yet another cup of tea AND munch on biscuits. And then make really strange noises because bits of biscuits were stuck in his denture. And then twist and turn because the biscuit crumbs in his sheets were annoying him (but not as much as they annoyed the rest of us). All that carry-on within a meter and a half of your own bed, with a stripy faded orange curtain for all noise cancellation device...

And then at 2am he puked the whole lot all over himself (all these painkillers that he did not really need, really...). And I switched from the annoyed-yet-amused mode to the slightly more distressed-to-be-here mode as I was listening to an old man cry and cry like a baby as he was being cleaned and his bed sheets were changed in the middle of the night by four nurses whose wages should be doubled on the spot (ah, go on lads from the IMF. Once you've borrowed the 150 billions you are short of, please throw a few more scraps at the Irish nurses).

As a wise man recently said to me (oh no, actually it was Red):
"A great leveller, hospital.
A very low level, though."

Things happen within these walls that would be unthinkable 200 yards down the road. Like being complimented for taking a dump in public (well, behind a stripey faded orange curtain for all noise and smell cancellation device). And yet you do not care. Or rather you do not squirm. And you too are pleased for James-the-Drool because it looks like the poor old soul had been in pain for quite a while from not being able to go to the loo.
It all revolves around bodily functions and pain and its management.

And ritual questions repeated over and over.
- "Did you pass water today Nicolas?"
- "No Kelly, I did not manage to pass any water today, but I passed a fair amount of urine. I don't think I could bottle it and pass it off as Ballygowan though."
- "Ah ah, you are funny Frenchman you know."
- "And you a bonnie lass from Scotland, Kelly, what's for grub tonight?"

It's been a very formative couple of days. I'm glad I'm back home now.
It feels strange. After just four days in hospital...
My opinion has changed quite dramatically about the perceived lack of severity of, let's say, a year in prison. With no friendly nurses. Or internet connection. Or tea cart. And inmates you fear. And a total lack of connection with the outside world. Your own private hell for an incredibly long period of time. A custodial sentence, of any length of time, is anything but a walk in the park.

This was Raheny_Eye, reporting from St Michael's Ward, and heading back home.

Oh, and it is cellulitis, I only found out today meself.
And, no, it is not a condition that only strikes overweight people.

Poor old John-the-Screamer was totally zonked on morphine tablets as I left the ward. He was vacantly staring into space. I'm quite sure that he suffered from very real and very strong anxiety attacks. And a tendency to slurp REALLY LOUDLY when drinking his tea.

Rejects (since last Tuesday morning):
A&E
It's the jungle to find a free bed here
In good company
John-the-Quiet being the center of attention
Oh look, LOOK!, she opening the window
Philip resting (there was a lot of that)
The closest I came to crying
John-the-Quiet waiting for his release after serving a detention period of one month.