There’s a certain amount of irony in any hospital stay. First of all, what sadistic bozo invented hospital gowns? I’ve seen thong bikinis that afford more modesty, and as far as comfort goes, the idea of a permanent draft down your back is not my idea of a good time. Of course, hospital gowns are the least of your worries if you’re admitted to one of our temples of healing. As I write this, my sister and I are sitting in what is quaintly referred to as a “pre-op” room, waiting for our father to be wheeled into surgery. He’s gowned up, with the IV drip at the ready, all undressed, with nowhere to go. Apparently, Thursday is the “All You Can Sew” day in the operating room, so they’ve got victims patients stacked up like cordwood, awaiting their turn under the knife. This wouldn’t be so bad, but when you’re to go under a general anesthetic, you can’t eat for at least eight hours prior to surgery. In a show of solidarity, neither my sis nor I ate either, so between the three of us, even hospital food is gaining a certain, desperate appeal. Continue reading On Hospitals.