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Hospital romance.

I recently had an operation and am now looking forward to returning home. Therefore, my post is not about children, but it is not about my well-being. This is a sketch of a hospital room for four, where everyone has their own story.
I want to share this atmosphere with you. Here is the most patient and intelligent woman who once worked as a deputy minister of education in one of the Union republics. She came to the capital from far away, leaving a 99-year-old non-walking mother, in search of Dr. House, saved up a pension for a year and gave it for a week for a diagnosis, where they found out that she had pain of unknown origin.
My beloved inimitable Coco, about whom I wrote in the previous article, was discharged last week and is probably somewhere in banana-lemon Singapore.
On the next bed is a girl who has urgently returned from rest due to the onset of peritonitis. For three days now, we have been watching her endless suffering, regretting it, and trying to help her. She’s 34, she has a simple family of two, because children don’t work out, even despite IVF and two operations to remove adhesions and something else. She says with a sigh that her husband said that if so, we will live for ourselves in old age, go on vacation, and fuck it, with the continuation of the family. An amazing husband: in the eyes of love and respect, despite the fact that the girl is such that Rubens did not dream of, in hospital conditions, something reminiscent of Rose from the Monster Corporation, the very bureaucratic element that haunts Mike Wazowski. But such love in the eyes, seriously! Almost like us. Rare, what to say.
Here’s Granny-God’s dandelion. A shambling jaw, a nocturnal snore, a calico nightgown in a small flower and a complete lack of understanding of modern reality, mixed with inexhaustible positivity. And at the same time, an amazing pseudo-French pronoun with Moscow vowel stretching, more like sinusitis. She is sweet and charming in her stupidity. She’s like a little kid. Her husband is a history scholar, the kind of person who would rewrite a page manually instead of using a scanner. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was with a quill pen and by candlelight. Grandma sang odes to me for changing her date on her phone, as if I’d solved the Goldbach problem. I sincerely admired how quickly my fingers slide over the iPad, simultaneously admiring the wonderful device itself, and the fact that I can do all this without finishing any two-year courses, and the fact that a whole book can fit into this thing, and even photos. Whether out of stupidity, or for educational purposes, I showed my grandmother the Internet, in which the whole world and the answer to any question. And Granny had a serious cognitive dissonance. The entire chamber had to move the assemblage point into place. All day long we listened to Babka’s outpourings about the fact that the Internet knows everything about everyone and everything, which is even scary. And probably even more so than her husband, the historian. By the way, then it turned out that the son of the grandmother is tightly and seriously engaged in electronic technologies and Internet commerce, but the grandmother was saved from this information, so as not to break the fragile perception of the world, and here we are. And so Granny dandelion drove off. Do not be alarmed, this is not slang, not to another world, but home, sipping seagulls from a red saucer with polka dots in a bite with a lamb. And in her place came Granny Churchill.
Granny Churchill was so called for mimicry reasons. Outwardly, she looked more like Grandpa, sullen and always dissatisfied. This, my friends, is a brain drain. A test of nerve strength and endurance. With her whole being, she demonstrated the dominance of senility over common sense. She repeated the joke about Khazanov, who needs to cry less and write more, three times. Apparently, this joke was repeated because we did not laugh out loud, but shyly hid our eyes, smiling stupidly. All day, Granny’s brain was thinking about the diagnosis and treatment tactics of the sweetest and most intelligent woman with pain of unknown origin, who came from far away and left a non-walking 99-year-old mother. The following ideas were put forward: drink honey and chew propolis, rub salt in your feet, go to the transfer to Malysheva, hire lawyers and sue the fifty kopecks spent on doctors, do exercises in the morning, go for water treatment and eat rabbit droppings (cross out the excess). Ideas were presented in portions, with peremptory intonations and almost with exclamations of ” eureka!”. At Malysheva, granny was generally jammed, and she sulked all day that they did not want to take advantage of her advice, because this is the only chance, only there real specialists will provide her with qualified help.
During our evening summits, it turned out that Churchill spends his extra-hospital leisure time writing letters to the president to fix the crane, because the housing department refused to do it for free. She’s on the phone to the local deputies for not wanting to send her someone to fix the stove on New Year’s Eve. We found out that she voted for Putin because he is the most beautiful man in the world: statuesque, handsome and fit. For half a day, Grandma broadcast the bearded news from a year ago, seen on TV, about the extent of the dug-out strawberry patch or the burning of an effigy on Shrovetide. In general, Granny had little appreciation of her surroundings, and by the evening she was asking questions about what was happening right under her nose. Often twice. Even more often three times. Sometimes it seemed that she was stuck in her own worldview. The romantic flair of it all was added by the fact that at night granny farted like an elephant and snored like a tractor, and I was glad that my bed was near the window, and the pull went from the window to the door, and not vice versa.
Despite all this, the hospital atmosphere somehow reminded me of the atmosphere of a children’s pioneer camp, where the role of counselors is performed by doctors, the day is divided into procedures, trips to the dining room and rounds, and in our free time, we and our fellow ward members hotly discuss the” counselors ” of doctors, nurses and that man in a silk burgundy dressing gown with gold stripes, walking along the corridor with And today, the sweetest and most intelligent woman with an unidentified illness read me poems and plaited her hair into braids.