Part 1: The Magic Word(s)

On August 31, I began what has turned out to be an extended encounter with the infamous Medical Care Establishment. That morning, I developed chest pains which radiated into my arms and were accompanied by tingling in my extremities and lightheadedness in my, well, head. Being the astute observer of my person that I am, it began to dawn on my consciousness that these symptoms were not normal and could, in fact, be serious enough to require exposure to the Medical Care Establishment. One should not undertake such an exposure lightly, as many medical emergencies have been known to occur within the confines of the Medical Care Establishment, but when I felt the urge to pass out coming on, I decided it was time to go.

So I was driven to the emergency department of the local Medical Care Establishment, and quickly learned the answer to one of my life-long questions: How does one receive prompt care in the emergency department? Oh, various methods have been tried, but to no avail.

Patient: “Hello, I have a very bad cold and my throat is in intense pain.”

MCE receptionist: “Oh, just go away.”

Patient: “I was in a reenactment of the Battle of Bunker Hill and was shot in the arm. It is bleeding profusely.”

MCE receptionist: “Please take a seat and the next available nurse will see you.”

Patient: “I think I broke my leg. See, I have a jagged piece of bone protruding from my left thigh.”

MCE receptionist: “We can schedule you for an appointment about 8 weeks from now.”

But this morning was different. I waltzed pathetically into the emergency department and quietly announced under my breath that I was having chest pains, consisting of pains in my general chest area, and the entire department sprang to life. The receptionist, who only moments before appeared to have only recently awoke from a long winter’s nap and who appeared to be on the brink of lapsing into another nine-month hibernation, perked up and began asking me many emergency related questions, such as, “What is your name?” “When is your birthday?” “Are you allergic to any medications?” “What did you have for breakfast this morning?” “On a scale of 0-10, what is your opinion of the pain scale?”

When the interrogation was over, I was immediately placed into a wheelchair and taken “out back”, thereby beginning my exposure to the Medical Care Establishment. I marveled at the quick response of the emergency department personnel, and wondered why I hadn’t thought of having chest pains every other time I’ve come to the emergency department. But my sense of wonder quickly wore off as I began to realize that perhaps my situation was serious. Suddenly, my mind was full of those questions which plague everyone who suspects they might be reaching, as they say, the end of the rail: “Is this it?” “Is my life about to flash before my eyes?” “Will Charles Bartowski ever succeed in finding his mother?”

Dozens of emergency department personnel, or maybe three, quickly materialized and began perusing my body for the best spots to attach their collection of wires, sticky pads, and needles. Apparently, the best spots to attach the wires and sticky pads are also the same places on my person with the most hair. “You’re not going to enjoy taking these off!” they warned, with a friendly smile on their faces. Then a very helpful emergency department personnel came and stuck a needle into, and almost through, my arm. This was for the IV, he noted, and then to make sure it didn’t escape, he wrapped my arm in what appeared to be military grade duct tape. “It ain’t gonna be fun taking this off!” he observed, again with a friendly smile.

The wires and sticky pads were for a Medical Care Establishment device called an EKG, which is a Latin phrase meaning, “A device which medical care personnel attach to people to see if they have a high tolerance for hair removal pain.” Under the right conditions, the EKG will also check to see if one’s heart is malfunctioning, which I suppose was their pretense for this action. As it was, my heart was not malfunctioning.

Quickly concluding that the EKG wasn’t going to make me cry Uncle, the emergency department personnel decided to whisk me off for an x-ray. Having an x-ray is a fairly harmless procedure that involves bombarding your person with enough radioactive energy to kill Superman. They also say that the x-ray produces an image, or picture, of your innards, but if you look closely, all x-rays are the same, consisting of indiscernible blurs of white, black, and gray. The classes for “reading” an x-ray are apparently held right next door to the Robert Parker Sommelier School. So, though it should come as no surprise, my x-rays didn’t indicate that anything in my innards were out of order.

At this point, the collective staff of the Medical Care Establishment had had enough of my shenanigans and sent me home. “We don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, but if you have a heart attack or collapse from a pulmonary embolism, feel free to come on back in.”