Jamison Trumpets

When Trumpets Meet Syringes

December 20th, 2013 by DanielRGT

As I write this post, the first post in what is easily several months, I am laying in a hospital bed heavily medicated on various types of drugs. What this means is that I am in prime position to write a blog post because there’s no better motivation than drugs for a writer.

I have spent the past 3 or 4 days in the hospital with some pretty annoying problems. I am not going to go into specifics, but needless to say my kidneys took a shit everywhere and my stomach is doing its best impression of being pregnant and having a child kick the shit out of my insides. Needless to say, it is extremely painful.

There’s the up side to this and that is that I’m getting help at a hospital. That sounds great, right? Well, I’m going to put it extremely lightly when I explain that if you think that then you clearly have never been inside of a hospital you fucking piece of shit. How dare you think that hospitals are a place where people get better and enjoy getting better in the process. It is quite literally torture being inside of a hospital.

Let me break all of this down for you so that you can understand what I mean because all of the shit that has happened to me is 100% real and 100% fucking awful.

The first thing that happens when you walk into a hospital expecting care is you must wait a minimum of half your life span to be seen by the doctor. Of course when I say the doctor, I am referring to a nurse who could give a shit about your symptoms and complaints. So when you come in and try to explain that you are in a lot of pain and have been having these symptoms for a long time, they refer you to their pain chart.

Now, I have always thought that the idea of a pain chart was a myth because in my mind there was no way anybody would be stupid enough to actually try and rate pain like that. I was wrong though because it actually exists and is as arbitrary as it sounds. The pain chart asks you to rate pain from a scale of 0 to 10, which sounds more like you’re giving a rather casual movie review than accurate medical information that is being used as a basis for treatment. The pain scale rates from “no pain at all currently/wasting everyone’s time”(a 0 on the chart) to “actively being mauled by bears/watching anything with Miley Cyrus” (a 10, or in the case of some of those watching Miley, dead).

When explaining that you have pain to a nurse in the ER (which is absolutely nothing like the show by the way as I didn’t even see John Stamos once) their first job is to ignore everything you’ve just said and their second job is to find out just how many things they can stab you with until you, the patient, finally exclaim that enough is enough (“There is no way that I am allowing you to take blood from the vein on my penis. Not after the first six times!”).

After they run your blood through their blood scanners (purchasable from Office Depot) they admitted me into the main part of the hospital once they found out my kidneys were on the path to exploding. Being admitted into a hospital room is a bit like staying at a very bad motel with a very strict dress code, the dress code in the case of the hospital being of course that your ass must be revealed at all times

It’s pretty much an understood truth that if you’re in a hospital the law of the land is that your ass must be visible at any time. If a doctor, nurse, janitor, or other patient sees you walking around in your hospital gown and they can’t see your ass you are sentenced to 10 years of jail time and an extra 3 years of required wearing of ass-less chaps under the “All Ass All Day Medical Care Act of 1897”.

It’s hard to describe just how soul-crushingly boring a hospital is. They put you in a room and chain you to a bed and IV machine that is pumping what is only described as “fluids” by nurses (which sounds more ominous than it needs to be). This would normally be an okay time to catch up on all the sleep that you don’t get as a human being doing college work, but it’s also part of hospital policy to wake up patients every 2 or 3 minutes and ask arduous questions.

It takes several hours (or in my case, days) for a doctor to finally see you, but it doesn’t actually clear up anything. The conversation almost always goes like this:

Doctor: Hello Mr. Trumpets, how are you feeling?

Me: Not that great, I’m in a lot of pain.

Doctor: That’s not normal. (grunts disapprovingly)

Me: No, do you have an idea what’s wrong with me?

Doctor: Let me feel your heart with my heart-checky thingy.

Me: Your stethoscope?

Doctor: Hey, I’m the doctor here pal.

Me: I am in intense pain, I’m very sorry.

Doctor: Well my heart-checker hasn’t heard anything strange such as wild animals or communist regimes being overthrown in your body, so you must be okay.

Me: I physically cannot move from the pain.

Doctor: I’ll tell another doctor to check you. They are equally or less qualified than I am but I’m really tired of hearing you complaining like a bitch.

(Hours/Days pass)

Second Doctor: Hello Mr. Trumpets, how are you tod- Oops, I forgot my heart-checky thingy.

(Leaves forever)


My point is that infinity doctors will come into your room, check your heart with their stethoscope, and shrug their shoulders at your ailment. Their next job is to pawn off work on a different doctor and have them do the exact same thing. This process repeats until you are fixed by magic or you die, and believe me that both are perfectly okay with the doctor.

If you’re very lucky, some time in the next century they will take you to get parts of your body scanned. Now there are varying degrees of getting your body scanned, but literally all of them involve laying on the most uncomfortable slab ever. 90% of the scans involve being inserted into what can only be described as a humongous death machine, and if you’re really unlucky that machine will be so loud they literally have to give you noise cancelling headphones in order for your ears to not explode. In addition, that machine will sound like it’s logging into AOL for 40 minutes straight and your instructions are to lay perfectly still and not move a single part of your body or so help me. The other 10% of scans involve slathering you in cold goop and stabbing you very hard with a plastic deodorant stick.

Some scans can be especially terrifying as a man since they require you to display your junk. You might think I’m being silly when I see this as a concern, but to a man a junk is his temple. When things are going bad in a man’s life he can take comfort that he still has his junk to fall back on. They are every man’s “Ol’ Faithful.” Got fired from your job and can’t pay your rent? It’s a good thing my junk is still intact. Got punched in the face by a man three times your size and watched him walk away with your girlfriend? My junk isn’t actively on fire so I’ll get over it. Stabbed by a psychopath on the street who’s wearing only a codpiece created from thrown away KFC buckets? As long as he didn’t stab my junk then I’ll live (unless I die, in which case in my last moments I’ll have been comforted that I died with my junk in one piece).

When I hear that for this scan or surgery I have to have my junk on display it starts raising red flags. Most guys don’t look at other people’s junk (unless they’re gay, in which case junk is sort of their stock and trade) so they only really have their junk to go on as far as healthy junk goes. Sure, guys look at porn and there are tons of dicks in those videos, but porn can’t be trusted as they portray a standard that can’t be possibly met by any normal human being. So when a doctor says, “Yea your junk will be on display during this” the only thing I can do is get worried that for my entire life my junk has been showing signs of my oncoming death for years and I was too stupid to notice because I thought it was normal junk. What if the doctor looks at my junk and decides it’s also appropriate to do a junkectomy. What if during the procedure my junk doesn’t meet the standards of every man in that room and they take a pitiful picture of it to post on their “Wall of Cock Shame” in their break room? What if they do that and then when the end of the year rolls around my cock wins “Most pitiful dong of the year” in their “Yearly Schlong Review” event. All of these things are guaranteed to happen if my junk is on display during a procedure.

Let’s stop talking about my junk (for now) though. Thankfully when you sit inside a hospital you can really appreciate how adamant hospitals are about hiring diversity in their staff members. You’ll see a lot of different types of people in a hospital, but it’s really great to see that in this day and age our society is not scared at all to hire vampires in our hospitals.

They must be hiring vampires, you see, because every 2 hours someone comes in to stab you with a needle and suck your blood out. There were several days where I had enormous amounts of blood removed from my body (I’m fairly certain they inserted blood in my body just so they could have the pleasure of removing it immediately after) and then I had symptoms brought on by the sheer amount of blood they removed that were attributed to some potential mystery disease. They of course had to test if I had the mystery disease by taking 16 vials of my blood on the spot.

Finally after two or eight lifetimes of time spent in the hospital, a stray doctor wandered into my room and immediately became disconcerted by me badgering him with questions about my predicament. Immediately he told me what was actually wrong with me and left the room as fast as possible to avoid any follow-up questions because he had already tried to get me to shut up by using his heart-checky thingy and he couldn’t possibly use the same trick twice.

Food is something you hear about often when people discuss hospitals, airlines, or particularly fat friends; however, in the case of this post we’re talking about all three. When I came into the hospital, I hadn’t really eaten in two days. I’m not going to go into any specifics, but let’s just say that if I were to eat any food it would end up straight back on the ground with enough contents from my stomach to create a monument of the food I had just eaten. So when the hospital hears this, their immediate reaction is to make sure to give you food that is utterly and completely inedible. It seems to make sense to me that if you are suffering in a hospital bed that every particle of being also deserves to suffer, and your stomach is no exception.

What’s extremely interesting to me is that there are people who die in hospitals. People hold onto their last breath while laying in a hospital bed and the hospital’s decision as far as food quality is concerned is basically equatable to how concerned a morbidly obese man is that the thirteen double quarter pounders he’s ordering from McDonalds might be a tad unhealthy (“Of course I know it’s unhealthy, that’s why I ordered a Diet Coke”). People in death row get a last meal of their choosing before they are injected with justice juice from the state, but since a death in a hospital is unpredictable people in the hospital get the same shit-covered shit (like from a butt) that everybody else gets.

On top of that it’s frowned upon to not eat any of their horrific culinary attempts. When somebody breaks down my hospital door claiming that there is food present in the room and they hand me a tray of food that is all the wrong color  I am not exactly sure why I am expected to eat it. I’m reprimanded for not eating it in fact. People come to me and say, “You won’t get out of here if you don’t eat that food you know!” What they are saying is that I am literally imprisoned in the hospital and the only way to escape from the hell they have provided to me is to take place in their attempt to recreate popular Fear Factor challenges.

Also as it turns out, hospitals are sort of like reverse rehab clinics. When you undergo surgery or are in pain, they give you glorious drugs that make you feel fantastic and the only real response to receiving these drugs are to become horribly addicted to them. Once again though you aren’t allowed to leave the hospital until you stop taking those drugs. So the plan is to give you really awesome drugs when you enter, watch you get addicted, and then dangle freedom in front of your face that’s impossible to achieve unless you join their twelve-step program. What a glorious experience indeed.

It’s funny as I review my time spent in the hospital. Basically the majority of my time was spent sipping on apple juice and worrying about my junk (which is actually what I do outside of the hospital anyway so at the very least they tried to make me comfortable), but overall it was a horrific part of my life that I won’t be soon forgetting. My hospital experience has been equatable to getting my leg torn off by hyenas which is ironic because a hospital is where you are supposed to go if that happens to you. At least I still have my junk intact though.






Jamison Trumpets: The Blog of Daniel Rivera
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