Part 3: Cue the Fire Hydrant

After I got off the phone with my doctor, I (cough, cough) proceeded to ignore his careful instructions and enjoy a leisurely lunch, realizing that it very well could be my last real meal for who knows how long. I haven’t even started to describe the culinary offerings of the Medical Care Establishment, and there’s a reason for that – they defy description. I mean, you would think that any establishment that was dedicated to the preservation of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness would hold at least this truth to be self-evident: that not all foods are created equal, and persons who fear they might be approaching, as they say, the end of the rail, might shouldn’t be inspired to head further down the line by the sight of their lunch. But enough about that.

So after finishing my last meal, tying up a few loose ends in the office, reading a few books to the children, and making sure my will and personal effects were in order, I returned to the emergency department of the local Medical Care Establishment. Apparently, my doctor had warned them that I was coming, which was evident not because I was able to register and be seen with blazing speed and efficiency, and not because of the four large men with surly goatees and bulging biceps standing near the exit, but because of the expressions of the receptionists, who had only recently woken up, which seemed to say, “Where have you been? We were expecting you hours ago!”

Since my previous visit had been unsuccessful in satisfactorily keeping me from returning, the emergency department personnel decided to up the ante. They pulled out their expert doctors, the ones who spend most of their days lurking in the closets, carefully reviewing the bags of tricks up their sleeves, and who are especially talented in dealing with ornery patients. And boy, was I ornery. Here I was, insisting on having these chest pains, even after 17 days, and not just getting better already. They were clearly irritated with me and, determined to rid me of my orneriness, they threw the proverbial book at me. Not a real book of course; that would be a violation of the HIPAA Act, or something. But I bet they daydream about throwing things.

So, I was connected to an EKG again, complete with sticky pads, wires, and smiling personnel. In fact, they thought it was so fun, they took all the sticky pads off, in a carefree manner, and put on new ones. They did this so they could tell me, with a straight face, that my heart was not malfunctioning.

I had x-rays taken again, complete with the harmless radiation capable of killing Superman. Nothing abnormal there.

I was connected to the IV Harpoon of Death, complete with the military grade duct tape and smiling personnel. They used this access point to drain me of what seemed like several quarts of blood, so they could take it away for “testing.” Nothing abnormal there, either.

Then, not wanting me to get bored or anything, I was wheeled down a intricate maze of hallways and through about a dozen doors with the words “No Access. Do Not Enter.” written on them to a secret laboratory for a CT scan. A CT scanning machine is basically a x-ray machine on steroids. Using enough harmless radiation and contrast agents sufficient to kill several Supermen, this machine takes a 3-D image of one’s innards. Surprisingly enough, though, nothing abnormal was found here.

At this point, the emergency department personnel decided to try a new method of attack – drugs. They began introducing various and sundry substances into my person and would then stand back and watch, with hands on chins and eyebrows indented, as if they were expecting something interesting to occur. So sometimes, I would begin twitching and jerking my head around. Ha, ha! Not really, but that would have been fun. One of the more interesting substances was a narcotic called Dilaudid. The emergency department personnel would inject this drug into my IV Harpoon of Death and within about 20 seconds, I would have this sensation in the back of my skull not unlike when someone hits you in the head with Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. Then I would feel drowsy and no pain for several hours. That would have been nice, except this particular drug was accompanied by a disturbing feeling in my southern innards – you know, the ones in the stomach and intestines region, that made them feel like they were in the spin cycle. Ugh.

I was not to be worn down though; I was still feeling sometimes intense pain, except when on the wonderful dictionary-to-the-head, stomach-to-the-spin-cycle drug. And so the emergency department personnel, undeterred also, and, you really have to give them credit for this, determined to get at the root of my orneriness, announced that I would spend the night in their “observation” room. Of course, I could only stay there if I was pain free, the doctor said, winking. It was either that, or the ICU, he warned, where they’ll wake you every 30 minutes and rearrange your sticky pads and remove blood and maybe even poke you in the eyeball with a dull spoon. I decided that I would stay in the “observation” room, and he hit me up with enough drugs to make me forget the world for the night.