You Can't Touch This: Schkeev!

Attention many new readers, in case you haven't read the disclaimers, the below post contains bad language in the original spirit of the original CysticGal blog: )

Also, want to read some funny current thoughts by CG and often to CysticLady (my sister), read the tweets to the right!
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The thing I hate the most about being in the hospital is all the excessive touching. I don't mean the doctors listening to your lungs. I don't mean the blood draws. I don't even mean the surgeries. I mean the other types of touching that you are subjecting to and cannot get out of without literally batting someone away or being a total biotch.

There is this one respiratory therapist that is actually quite good at his/her job. I'll call him/her Respie. Respie is jovial, friendly, and quiet when I don't want to talk, but happy to converse if I'm for it, while we PT. S/he works around my snarky approach to the hospital scheduling. S/he is one of the few people I have given "it's okay to wake me up" privileges. I like Respie's PT so much that s/he can even come and wake me up if we have agreed to PT, if I put the "PATIENT IS SLEEPING, PLEASE SEE THE NURSE (subtext: or I'll kill you)" sign on the door. But, here's the thing. When Respie gets distracted, s/he leans a huge belly onto my back. It schkeevs me out every time. Schkeev!

When doctors are listening to my chest - which is annoying enough, they often place their other hand on my shoulder or some other random part of my body. Why? Back the fuck up. Schkeev!

When I am having a coughing fit, random people that are in the room cleaning it, or changing my portable oxygen tank, or delivering food, will attempt to touch me. Usually, I use my CysticGal guns to POW! Lay them out flat! Just kidding. I make them talk to the hand. I do not want their schkeevy-gloved hand on my CysticBack. Do I really look like I need help coughing? Unless it's Respie or CysticMommy, Get the fuck back.

Every 4 hours a random woman will take my vital signs. Here are the things that are true about this woman, even though she is always a different woman: She does not speak English. She either yells when she talks or refuses to speak. She wears white tights. Her job is to take my pulse, my temperature, and my oxygen saturation, and to write down the oxygen amount I am using. Here is what is true of her a good 50% of the time. She does not know what any part of "that is too tight" or "I can hold the thermometer, you're stabbing under my tongue" means. She opens the door to my room 3 times for every 1 time she comes in, staring at me. She does not, in fact, know how to do two things: take blood pressure, or read an oxygen meter thingie on the wall (the amount of oxygen I'm using). This may sound silly, but when someone is wrapping a blood pressure cuff around you and not pumping it up, what draws them to the conclusion "100/70"? which btw, is NOT MY BLOOD PRESSURE. She is not taking my blood pressure, she is often faking my blood pressure. I digress. The worst, sckievest part: while this woman fakes my blood pressure, she always places my hand on the side of her hip, so that the hand of the arm she is faking my blood pressure on, is caught, trapped, captured between her pudgy hip and her elbow, while she uses the rest of my arm and her arm to fake my blood pressure. The process Schkeevs me for unexplained, CysticGalComplainer reasons. Schkeev!

Three weeks in this place. My good mood is fading.
Love, CG