How I Spent Last Sunday (LynnK)

That’s the place. The ER. Not nearly so frantic as the one on TV, where bloody patients are regularly rushed in after dire accidents. This facility was crowded but quiet, and the only blood I saw was in several vials-full extracted from me.

If you read the post about my Fourth of July parade appearance, you know I was having problems with shortness of breath and lightheadedness. On Sunday morning they were back, serious enough to scare me. Naturally, I went looking for medical info on the Web. At the American Heart Association site, I discovered that anyone experiencing my symptoms should call 911.

I called a friend. The line was busy. Figuring I’d be consigned to the hospital, I decided to pack a small Bag of Necessities. First item in—you guessed it—a thick book. Reading glasses. Legal pad and pen, in case I was inspired to write something.

Line still busy, so in went an oversized tee-shirt and a robe. The IPod. Cell phone. Address book. Floss. Phone still busy, so being me, I washed my hair. Fed the cat. Finally I shambled across the street and cadged a ride.

A sign in the ER directed people with shortness of breath to the head of the line, and soon I was in a wheelchair under a blanket, waiting for a bed. Reluctant to abandon me, friends Thea and her husband John settled in to watch the tennis match when I was finally wheeled through the Doors of Doom.

We paused at the loo, where I was to produce a urine sample. By this time I was cold to the core, dizzy, and my hands were shaking so badly it’s a wonder I captured a drop. On to room A-4 and the bed, where I was needled with an IV port and hooked up to oxygen and several intimidating machines. Given an EKG. Then I waited.

Most of the five hours I spent in the ER consisted of waiting. And being scared. What scared me most, though, was how little I feared a serious diagnosis. Even a fatal one. I could only think what a relief it would be to escape the pain I’d been living with.

Eventually the young (of course!) doctor came with a notepad and asked a lot of questions. Good ones. At the end, I ventured to suggest the problem was rooted in my four months of Shingles pain and virtually no physical activity.

More waiting. A machine was brought in to take an X-Ray. Waiting. Doctor arrived with the X-Ray and hung it up where I could see it. Da Da Dum! What was that weird growth in the center of my chest? It looked exactly like (pardon me) the tip end of a little boy’s wee-wee. Yikes! No wonder I was sick. I had a vestigial penis growing in my chest!

Or not. The doctor studied the X-Ray and finally said, “Looks fine to me.” I was too stunned to ask what the Killer Penislike-Thingie was.

More waiting. Hours of it. Finally I had to revisit the loo, which meant being disconnected. Until then, I hadn’t realized just how many cords and wires and whatevers were attached to me. I’d become one of the Borg. Resistance is Futile!

“This is like a bad bondage fantasy,” I told the nurses trying to get me loose. “I must be in the S&M module of the ER.” They both laughed, probably because they were struggling to conceal my unlovely derriere with another of those awful hospital gowns. The skimpy one I was wearing didn’t cover enough territory.

Finally, trailing wires and clutching tatty gowns, I staggered out of my room and through the module to the bathroom, getting a lot more attention than I wanted. My nurse had asked what I did, and I’d told her. Apparently word had gotten around that I write romance novels. Many illusions were dashed that day.

At long last, the doctor reappeared to say that all tests were normal. And he rather thought my self-diagnosis might be the answer, although he had a name for it. Decondition. Yup. How lowering.

So my ordeal was ended. While waiting for my chauffeur friends to return—they’d reasonably gone home after a couple of hours—I bought a large oatmeal-and-raisin cookie at the coffee stand. I needed something in my stomach before I could take some pain medication, but I must say, that cookie tasted about as good as anything I’ve ever eaten. Small pleasure abound. Guess I’m in no hurry to kick the bucket after all.

Now I’m in the throes of follow-up appointments and more tests, because Decondition may not be the real problem. One thing about my HMO: They don’t stint on exams, even when I don’t want them.

Enuff already. Unless something theatrical happens, no more posts about my health woes. In a couple of weeks, Pat and I will set out on a Road Trip up the coast road to San Francisco, and we invite you to come along. Sign onto this blog for plenteous stories and pictures.