Update on Harry Hogg’s Inability to Piss

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ring my heartbeats and my oxygen intake. I’d rolled, repeatedly, onto my left side, then right, then back again, and in so doing had entwined the bloody sheets around my calves and ankles.So, I lay there, my neck in a collar one typically places over a dog’s head to stop him licking his arse or whatever else he wants to lick, and the silent roar of darkness thrusts me into a witless state of sleep-deprived insanity.Before sleep, I looked at different texts, all wishing me well. I wanted to shout out, look at me, you condescending arses enjoying your Christmas lunch, drinking and being fucking merry.I can’t shit, something to do with the aftereffects of the anesthetic; my piss is heading through a tube to a bag hung on the side of the bed, rammed there by a gay nurse, no less. One leg connected to a wired sling at the base of the bed, which the

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nurses seem overly enjoyed to tighten every four hours, pulling my damn leg out of my hip. Not because the doctor ordered it, but because I continually remind the nurses about the importance of patient comfort.I’ve rung the fucking bell six times. I could have been dead after the first, but who cares? They don’t and do you know why? Because I don’t have to get up to piss, and my shit is bunged up royally. I’m a no-nuisance patient, to be ignored, and woken up only should I fall asleep!The first person I saw after coming out of surgery was Father fucking Christmas, saying ho ho ho and offering me a raspberry jelly for my sore throat. I mustered up enough breath to yell,Abandon all ye Santas’ who enter here and may lice be hiding in your fucking beard!The fat, red and white bastard gave me two jellies.</article></body>

And it’s not because I haven’t had enough to drink!

2:30 am, I couldn’t sleep. I had looked at my phone at 11:10 pm. You know what it’s like in these places, right, your everyday community hospital. The incessant muffled chatter of nurses gathered around the nurses outside the door, a pillow not comfortable enough for my dogs to sleep on, and certainly not one that supports the weight of my creative mind. Not to mention the staccato beeps coming from a machine monitoring my heartbeats and my oxygen intake. I’d rolled, repeatedly, onto my left side, then right, then back again, and in so doing had entwined the bloody sheets around my calves and ankles.

So, I lay there, my neck in a collar one typically places over a dog’s head to stop him licking his arse or whatever else he wants to lick, and the silent roar of darkness thrusts me into a witless state of sleep-deprived insanity.

Before sleep, I looked at different texts, all wishing me well. I wanted to shout out, look at me, you condescending arses enjoying your Christmas lunch, drinking and being fucking merry.

I can’t shit, something to do with the aftereffects of the anesthetic; my piss is heading through a tube to a bag hung on the side of the bed, rammed there by a gay nurse, no less. One leg connected to a wired sling at the base of the bed, which the nurses seem overly enjoyed to tighten every four hours, pulling my damn leg out of my hip. Not because the doctor ordered it, but because I continually remind the nurses about the importance of patient comfort.

I’ve rung the fucking bell six times. I could have been dead after the first, but who cares? They don’t and do you know why? Because I don’t have to get up to piss, and my shit is bunged up royally. I’m a no-nuisance patient, to be ignored, and woken up only should I fall asleep!

The first person I saw after coming out of surgery was Father fucking Christmas, saying ho ho ho and offering me a raspberry jelly for my sore throat. I mustered up enough breath to yell,

Abandon all ye Santas’ who enter here and may lice be hiding in your fucking beard!

The fat, red and white bastard gave me two jellies.