After spending the first thirty-three or so years of my life actively contributing to our publicly funded health care system without taking much in return, I’ve had a few trips to the Emergency Room lately to makeup for lost time.

Following a brief visit to a walk in clinic for what I thought might be a minor chest infection, the doctor sent me to the hospital because he was concerned that I may have a blood clot in my lungs. I walked out of his office and into Starbucks — priorities, right?

Cup in hand, I sat down in the triage room of the ER as the nurse assessed me. In a stern voice she told me to immediately dispose of the grande extra-hot, flat white made with Lactaid that I’d yet to take a sip of — $6.65 down the drain. Apparently coffee has a dehydration effect which makes veins narrower and blood thicker and more likely to get a clot. She finished checking my vitals and I was assigned to the fast-track section to wait to be treated.

It was a Breakfast Club of a room, full of people representing all walks of life, all of them waiting for someone or something: a loved one, a doctor, a nurse, answers, attention, compassion, drugs. I on the other hand sat there reflecting on the litres of coffee I drank earlier that day, or should I say, reminiscing.

The doctors and nurses were extremely thorough. After running a variety of tests and chest x-rays they determined I was ok. Five hours later I was discharged, no worse for wear.

The nurse asked me if I’d mind changing in the bathroom to free up a bed for another patient. I didn’t mind.

I walked over to the bathroom and effortlessly opened the door, as in, without any effort. A lady was in there. I walked in on her while she was sitting on the toilet. We briefly made eye contact, I saw some stuff but deemed it to be clinical given the setting. I wondered why she had taken all of her clothes off to go to the bathroom, in a hospital. Frazzled, she shouted, “the door is locked!” Saying it doesn’t make it true lady.

“Oh. Sorry”, I replied and shut the door. I stood outside waiting for her to finish doing whatever she was doing in there. That’s when another woman walked over with an empty urine cup in hand and asked me if she could go before me. No, you can’t I thought but said, “sure why not” and I left.

Here is a photo of me at Pita Pit taken shortly after I left the hospital.

I was so hungry. I couldn’t wait any longer. And as they say, “You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

That would be my defence if I was arrested for taking hospital property outside of hospital property limits.

I have since returned the gown to the hospital, as one would with a book borrowed from the library. The key word here is borrowed, ladies and gentlemen: to take and use something with the intention of returning it. Intent in nine tenths of the law, or is it possession is nine tenths of the law? I don’t know, but I rest my case.

Stay Great!

Kate