As Meg and I drove to the ER, I sent a text message to my parents, explaining that I was on my way to the hospital, and that I was texting rather than calling because I literally could not talk.
Meg dropped me off at the ER and went to park the car while I checked in. They took my info again and instructed me to take a seat in the waiting room. After sitting for just a minute or two, I was called into a cubicle office just off of the waiting room, where I was asked to explain my condition once again. Two nurses sat in the cubicle, and one announced to the other that I “smelled like strep.” My fears confirmed, I resolved to start showering every day lest I carry the scent of strep throat with me everywhere I go.
I met Meg again as I left that cubicle and went back to the waiting room. A few minutes after that, I was called into another cubicle where a woman took my insurance information. After that, I was sent back into the waiting room, and told to wait until they were ready for me.
The waiting room was a grim place. There was a single TV that was showing the day’s Vikings football game. There was also a sole magazine in the entire area, a Time from late June. Needless to say I pounced on that. A few seats across from me sat a guy with a combination of what looked like scales and goiters growing all over his face. Surprisingly, I don’t even think he was there to be admitted to the hospital, I think he was there with his sick wife. It took me about an hour to read completely through the magazine. Meg sat patiently beside me the entire time. At that point, with no end of my waiting in sight, I told her that she should go home and that I would call her when I knew more. I also told her I could just take the bus home from the hospital, a thought that seems foolish in retrospect. She went home, and I was left by my lonesome in the waiting room.
I didn’t have anything to do after, so I just sat in mu seat waiting for my name to be called. I couldn’t even see the clock from where I was, and since cellphones had to be turned off in the hospital, I had no good indicator of how much time had passed. So I sat, and watched people all around me be admitted. People who were there before me were admitted. People who got there after me were admitted. I guess I just wasn’t serious enough a case to be at the top of the list for admittance.
That didn’t mean, however, that I wasn’t suffering. I hadn’t had anything to drink since leaving the house, and even then it wasn’t much since it hurt so much to swallow. So I contented myself by licking the roof of my mouth with my tongue, thankful for every bit of beauteous moisture that this provided. Soon my tongue grew too dry for this to be of any help, so I had to settle for swallowing the excessive saliva that gathered in my engorged throat. This didn’t do much to rehydrate me, after all, any hydration was simply being recycled, but it brought momentary relief. It still hurt to fucking swallow though. I grew desperate as time passed and searched the waiting room for a water fountain. Instead, I only found a Pepsi machine, which I figured would do more harm then good, so I sat back down and waited.
After waiting for two hours (I got up from time to time to check the clock) I went up to the reception desk to say how much longer it was going to be. The receptionist told me, curtly, that I would be admitted when a room became available, and that, really, two hours was a pretty typical wait time. Jesus. I sat back down and waited some more.
About fifteen minutes later I thought I heard somebody call my name. I looked around, but didn’t see anybody. I heard my name again, got up, looked around again, but still didn’t see anybody. I glanced at a Hispanic man waiting with his young son. He pointed to the reception desk. I smiled, thanked him, and made my way to the desk, hopeful that my time had finally come. Instead, they told me that I had a message from Will. I stepped out into the vestibule between the two sets of sliding doors, turned on my cell and gave him a call. He just wanted to know what was up, so I gave him the low down. He said that he would come by if I was going to be in overnight. I went back to the waiting room and sat down and waited again.
0 Responses to “Smells Like Strep, pt. 3”