Hospitals

 When I was a child, I would get locked in bathroom at least once every trip.

I may have entered a new era. The fate has made hospitals a main part of my visit of a country. I knew hospital in Guatemala.

Today I went to the hospital in London. Though Emergency & Accident Department is much better in UK then it is in Quebec. I waited merely one hour, while I would have been expecting a real 6-8 hours in my native country.

When I went for my waxing this morning, I asked someone to have a look at my piercing: My ear had been swallowing for the last days, more and more, invading my cheeks and my neck. There was pus getting out of my piercing. It was painful. I want to cry.

The man there decided to take it off immediately, which he did. While I was crying like a baby. He sent me to the chemist.

I went to the chemist and started crying. He could do nothing. He sent me to the doctor.

I went to the doctor, the GP, and started crying. But I was not registered and I would have waited a couple of days to see the doctor. The receptionist sent me to the North Sussex Hospital.

I went back home, had a meal in the garden... and cried.

Then I went to the hospital and started crying. They gave me antibiotics for £7.40, to take four times a day for one week.

I was very sad because I had imposed such a foreign piece of metal to my body, and my body said no and I did not listen until the infection became huge. I apologize to my body, I feel so guilty and I feel so sad and I want to take care of it from now on. Now it must heal, it must heal, it must heal...