The hospital food really wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t great, but hospital food rarely is. My only complaint is that everything was so oily. There was oily vermicelli and rice for both lunch and dinner with an oily side of vegetables and meat. Lunch even came with an oily soup that I didn’t finish; it congealed into a solid lump of lard after sitting on my tray for an hour.
Dinner came at 5:00 PM on Sunday. We were hoping to be told we could go home, but instead we were told that we would be spending the night. I almost cried. Andrew ran out and bought some more juice and water and a few snacks.
Breakfast didn’t come until 8:00 AM on Monday morning.
That’s sixteen hours between meals in case anyone is keeping track. I’m so glad Andrew went out for those snacks. I survived the night by drinking a liter of juice, a liter of water, and a package of cookies.
I was absolutely ravenous when breakfast was dropped off. A nurse walked in, plunked the tray down on my bedside table, curtly wished me a good morning, and walked out, letting the door slam behind her. Thanks. Good morning to you, too.
Too hungry to get too upset about her lack of bedside manners, I scarfed down the croissant, all the while imagining what delicious feast awaited beneath the gleaming silver tray.
I wiped my hands on my napkin, took a few sips of juice and lifted the cover to reveal…
…six thin slices of cheese. It was rather anticlimactic. And I almost cried because it wasn’t even good cheese; its odor made want to hurl. So instead I just ate a banana and some more cookies and then Andrew and I started packing up to check out.
When I got home I had three big slices of cold pizza. Now that’s what I call breakfast.