Hah.
Song of the day: “Just haven’t met you yet” by Michael Bubblé. It’s been going back and forth through my head for two days now, and though the song isn’t by any means bad, I am getting a little tired of it.
So it’s been an incredibly busy couple of days, and if memory serves me right I finished the last blog with a mention of me needing to go out to bring grandpa to the hospital.
Well, we went. Arrived at the hospital and headed for the ER, as instructed by the physician in the village. Things started out fine, we identified ourselves through the security glass, got a wrist band with a name for grandpa, and a companion sticker for me and were sent through a door…to a half-full waiting room.
My first sinking sensation was short-lived since we were there for less than five minutes before grandpa’s name was called over the intercom (you have no idea as to how they can mess up foreign names, it took me a full minute of deciphering before I nudged grandpa in the right direction) and directed us to triage number 1. (That should have tipped me off, but I didn’t make the connection until much, much later.) We showed the letter or recommendation form the doctor and this wet behind the ears girl looked it over before she informed us that grandpa would be called when it was his turn.
That’s when the waiting started. Poor big brother, only one person was allowed to go inside with grandpa, so big brother spent the rest of the evening on his own. One hour passed, with grandpa and me watching the people before us passing through the proverbial cues. We didn’t start to worry until after midnight, when gradually the people who came AFTER we did were being led to the consultation rooms, while we got skipped time and again. Around one in the morning I decided to tackle the translator who appeared every hour, or so, carrying paperwork with him for the foreigners with different insurance papers waiting there.
Luckily he was a friendly guy, and when I asked, he did check if grandpa was even on the list (we had our doubts, you see). He was, and the guy (not a day over 25, if that) apologized for it taking so long. One in the morning was nothing, and since my stomach thought my throat had been cut, I finally succumbed and called big brother to beg for something to eat and drink. He came to the rescue with a donut (eeewww, but it was sugar, so what the heck) a bag of chips and a bottle of practically frozen water. *sigh* I could have fainted from the sheer bliss, and for a moment there wished I still smoked. Hah. Seriously, two years ago I would have gone through two pack waiting there. Smoking is such a wonderful thing to do when you’re waiting, and now that they have those fascinating pictures on the packages, you could actually start a collection to boot. Hah.
I don’t get that, by the way. The fact that people still smoke really doesn’t have anything to do with ignorance about what the supposed effects are. Seriously, who in this day and age hasn’t heard all the horror stories? Putting those pictures…heck, even the stupid “smoking kills” texts on it, just shows bad taste of the governments and whatnots who insist on them. It won’t help, I promise you that. The biggest regret about quitting smoking is definitely that I was never able to do this particular scenario:
Non-smoker: “This is a non-smoking area.”
Smoker: “Uh-huh. I read the sign.” Puffs on a cigarette.
Non-smoker: “Second-hand smoke kills, you know.”
Smoker: “Not reliably, it doesn’t.”
*snort* Of course I never would have had the nerve to say it, but I can hope, right. Hah.
All in all, the reason I like quit smoking is that I am no longer dependent on something so bloody expensive. Ah well.
But where was I? Right. Waiting.
Another hour passed, and I had just stepped outside for some more necessary stretches, (I’d gone out three times already) and another bite of the chips (there was a no eating and drinking sign in the waiting area. Morons!) when through the window I saw grandpa jump up at the appearance of a really grumpy looking guy in a white coat and scruffy jeans. I was already heading inside as grandpa opened the door looking around frantically.
I barely had time to gather our things at the impatient gestures of the doctor, and basically had to run after the guy who flopped behind a desk and started tapping on a computer while he asked what the problem was. His English was about as minimal as my Spanish, but we managed to make each other understood at least.
He glanced at the reference note, nodded and then said, “follow” in Spanish. We rushed after him, seriously, you’d think the guy was doing a marathon, and I was still juggling our things. Hah. In another room, gynaecology oriented, mind you, he shoved grandpa from one spot to the next, spritzed his eyes, examined them, rubbed at them, only to come to the conclusion that we had to come back on Monday because he didn’t have the right machine for it at the moment. Turns out they have to drill this small piece of metal out of grandpa’s lens. Now the metal is not the only problem, seeing as it has been in there so long, apparently, that a ring of oxidation has formed around it. *sigh* Poor grandpa.
Can’t blame him for being a tad worried, really. He often talks of the last time when he got eye surgery. He was just a boy then, and it was in the middle of WWII. He had an eye that crossed towards the center, so they had to correct the problem. He remembers that he was tied to the bed and that they operated on him, cutting through a muscle, without anesthetics. Then the bomb raid started, and they left him tied to the bed while he was wheeled to the basement. His eyes were covered, and all around him the sound of bombs coming down. Yikes.
I don’t know if I would be able to make myself go through this particular procedure with that memory in my head. Talk about scary.
Right. With grandpa half blind from the stuff the doctor had done, and carrying with us medication that is supposed to see him through the next few days. Grandpa was rightly outraged about the treatment, and it took me a solid ten minutes of joking to get him to relax a little while we headed home.
We didn’t get home until four thirty in the morning. My poor doggies were outraged and hurt. They just didn't understand why they had been locked up for so many hours, and before bed-time to boot. After their usual cacophony and greetings, it was five in the morning. Darn it. But what the hey, I set the alarm an hour later, and conked out for the night.
Yesterday…well, not a lot happened. Just a lot of busywork on my part, really. I walked tenant down. We worked in the yard for a bit, and I cooked dinner…which turned out rather nice I might add. I was on the phone with the garage, because, surprise surprise, we’re going to need a new exhaust pipe and muffler for the friggin’ Opel. Aaaargh, which brings us to today.
Yep, today was a day spent in town for me, and nope that didn’t make me happy at all.
I wouldn’t have minded sleeping in late, but we had a garage appointment and headed right down to town only fifteen minutes later than planned.
After dropping off the car we went back to the Land Rover only to discover that we were locked out of the driver’s side. Yep. The lock broke!!! I couldn’t believe it, and big brother and I messed with it for a solid fifteen minutes before we requested the aid of the mechanic of our garage, who, like us, failed to get the thing to open.
He said he could break it open for us, but then we wouldn’t be able to close the door until Monday, when he could get us a new one. *double sigh*
So we went grocery shopping, just a bit to tide us over for the next couple of weeks, crawling over the center every time. Of course then we realized that mom will need the car on Sunday, and that she can’t possibly get in that way.
Back we went, and entered to the news that the new muffler/exhaust pipe was the right one for an Opel Astra, but not the Opel Astra Merrit. Grrr. Need to drop it by on Monday too, and now drive it while it sounds like a friggin’ race car. They took an hour to take out the lock, and it was seriously busted. So either we had to go past junkyards to get a 2nd hand one, or order an expensive new one. We were gifted a list of phone numbers for local junkyards apparently there are seven big ones in Malaga, and a warning for the seventh, which is in the gypsy area. This place is where our mechanic went once, and almost go hold up for his money. Fascinating. Almost makes me want to go, just to see. Hah.
We jerry rigged the door and headed home where big brother took about an hour to figure out a proper lock for the door…and succeeded. There was supper, there was a dip in the pool, and there was a quick check of the yard before the day’s blog had to be written and I am where I am now, ready to call it a day, but still four hours away from actual bed time. Gotta edit, remember?
Ah well. This’ll do, won’t it?
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