A test of Vitality

An annoying thing about being in a psychiatric ward is the vitals.

They’ll wake you up at the crack of dawn every day and give you a flimsy gown to attempt to cover your ass with and tell you to report for vitals.

Some hospitals are really cool and have little machine on wheels that does it all at once right by your bed, but if you’re not in a cool hospital with fancy wheeling machines you have to haul yourself out of bed and go wait, half naked, in a line of your peers. Usually in a hallway.

There will be a little room you are all waiting to get into, a room in which an indifferent woman in a lab coat weighs you (while covering the display so you can’t see), takes your blood pressure laying down, sitting, and standing up, and takes your temperature.

If you’re lucky, once all this has happened you can go back to bed.

But some days they’ve called for a blood draw. So you get to sit your peek-a-boo butt back in a different line in a different hallway, for some poor phlebotomist to make you pass out.

It’s key, to them, to watch our basic signs of life. We’re their patients. But somehow you can’t help but feel like an animal in a zoo, herded and prodded along so it can get its daily shots.

I always hated vitals. They ruined my sleep.


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