A Christmas tale: Four hours in a johnny.

Byline: Sid McKeen

COLUMN: WRY & GINGER

There are much nicer places to spend Christmas week then in the clink, but that's where I found myself, at least for a day, 'til they sprung me.

It wasn't jail actually, but the hospital. And it wasn't the sheriff who let me go, but my doctor. "I haven't got a thing on you," he told me, looking through a sheaf of hospital reports. "You're free to go home right now if you want." I wanted. It was almost 10 p.m., but I called a cab and made a run for it. Cost me 15 bucks for a two-mile ride, but a bargain compared to the cost of another night in the hoosegow, and I would have blown the joint somehow even if I'd had to hitchhike.

That ended a 26-hour episode that began with unexplained and persistent chest pain the previous night, leading to a 911 call, a trip by ambulance to the ER and an overnight stay for a whirlwind of tests.

"All's well that ends well," as somebody wrote, Shakespeare no doubt. But it was another of life's little ways of keeping things interesting, and through it all, I couldn't help considering the parallels between hospitalization and incarceration.

You notice it first when they take away your clothes and hand you a johnny - the flimsy, awkward garment you can't tie in the back without help. It's the hospital equivalent of the prison's orange jump suit but without the style or convenience. That change alone forces you to adopt a submissive relationship toward your captors. Meals come and go not when inmates are hungry, but when staff is available to prepare and deliver it. Silverware and food packages are sealed so tightly they require the finesse of a safecracker to open, so what was served hot is cold by the time you can get at it. Et cetera, et distressingly cetera.

From adjoining cellblocks, you hear the constant chit-chat between guards and prisoners, with the incessant muffled announcements from the loudspeakers summoning all manner of personnel to any number of assignments ranging from the routine ("Trishia, please assist in Room 114") to the critical ("Dr. Caruthers, you have an urgent call on Extension 13").

Jailhouse bunks are not known for being the epitome of comfort, but hospital beds, for all their automated accessories, can be even worse. Trying to make them fit for sleeping is a futile exercise for anyone but a contortionist. If you manage somehow to get your lower body accommodated, your head and neck are out of line. Switch them and you have the same problem in reverse. On top of that, you face the prospect of self-strangulation from all the wires clinging to your body like some kind of electronic octopus.

My own odyssey had me in the ER at 9 and not in a semi-private room until 4 hours later. Speaking of privacy, it's a much-discussed subject in medical circles, with hospitals even requiring patients' acknowledgement in writing of their privacy policies. Ironically, I was interviewed for nearly an hour by a nurse asking the most personal questions imaginable, with the total stranger in the next bed listening in. Go figure. At the drug store, I'm not allowed even to approach the pharmacist until the customer ahead has finished picking up a prescription.

"You did exactly the right thing," the sheriff - er, doctor - told me as he released me back into society. Jail is one thing, a heart attack is something else. I can live with the first.

Reach Sid McKeen at [e-mail].