Archive | August, 2012

Hospital Adventures.. 3?

22 Aug

“Get off the floor.”
She demands.

As though Its that simple.

As though I could simply will my body to move at this point.

*

I am fifteen.
My mother had half carried me into the emergency department.

Triage- Blue Seats Only

I stumble to the blue chairs, leaning on anything I can find on my way.

Coke  machine, green chair, stumble green chair, table green chair stumble finally blue chair

I close my eyes and wait, and feel my mum try to take the vomit bag from me.
She still hasn’t learned that I need a new one before she can take the old one.
I cannot be without a bag for even a minute.
People sitting near to me move out of the way,
they do not want to catch what I have, grateful they aren’t dealing with It.

Little do they know, It is not contagious.
It cannot be caught and It cannot be fixed.
It can not be served a restraining order,
nor jailed for breaching said restraining order.
It cannot be gained by worst wishes, It cannot be removed by prayer.
It cannot be removed by scalpels, tweezers, poisons.
It just comes and goes as It pleases, leaving debris in Its wake.

*

The man currently talking to the triage nurse appeared to have a badly swollen ankle.
He speaks very loudly; he is drunk.
“Yeah well see, I, I was just going out for a piss an’ I fell ovvv, over the garden wall.”
He slurs.
The nurse walks from behind the wall to examine his ankle,
removing the makeshift bandage to reveal a scabbed over wound.
“When was this, sir?”
“Oh, that.”
He sniffs the air and then looks at his ankle as though he’s never seen it before.
“Yeah, no, I did that the other week. But now it really hurts, hey.
You need to do something to make it better.”

If I could, I would shake my head.
How dare you take up space in the emergency room at this time of night,
for something you should have had taken care of earlier.
Could have had taken care of earlier.
And now I have to wait for you.

I count to twenty.
I count to twenty in French.
I repeat. I try to think of anything but my body.
But I cannot keep It away.
It rises again and I manage to lift the bag to my mouth with the help of my mum.
I sweat again, I shiver and shake.
I lean all of my weight into the hard plastic seat.
Please just take me away from all of this.

The drunken man is told to go wait along with everyone else in the room.
The nurse spends a further five minutes on paperwork before addressing the three of us.
In that five minutes, my mother and I have remained silent.
Only It had screamed.
It had waved hysterically and shouted in the faces of all those avoiding possible eye contact.
It had splattered the inside of the clean plastic, no longer white and pure.
The nurse looks at us disdainfully, beckoning us to move forward.
My mother lifts me from one seat to another.
She begins by explaining medical conditions, mouthfuls she quickly rolls off her tongue.
She lists medications and dosages.
Name drops doctors and specialists we visit.
She tells the nurse I have been unable to sip water for 14 hours now.
She tells the nurse she’s concerned about my heart rate again.
She tells the nurse I cannot lift my head any more.
She tells the nurse everything.
But the nurse doesn’t even lift her finger toward a pen or the keyboard.
She is not worried.

“What’s your name?”
She is asking It and I. But we cannot speak. We don’t even dare try.
The very last of our energy is being used to sit somewhat upright.
It commands my full attention once again, mother repeats her bag with the routine.
She and the nurse talk, but I cannot hear words,
only buzzing over the sound of my heart beating far too quickly.
The nurse tells us to go wait with the rest of the crowd.
She does not offer any assistance, just watches on.
Mother tells me to count to three, on three sweetie.
She lifts me out of the chair and manages to drag me across the room.
As soon as we sit, she must reach up again to catch It’s latest mess.

And so we wait. I manage to sit for another ten minutes.
Ten minutes of agony, ten minutes of forcing an exhausted body upright.
Finally, I realise I cannot do it any more.
The people around me stare as I slowly slide down to the floor,
rest my head on my right arm,
left arm clutching the bag over my mouth in preparation.
My body rests. We rest together but only for a moment,
before It rises again from Its dark cave, rearing Its ugly head,
throwing Its flames with great force,
demonstrating Its power to all the villagers below.

And that’s when she notices.

She rises from behind her desk at great speed, a woman enraged.

“Get off the floor.”
She demands.
“You cannot be lying on the floor,”
“You cannot be laying on the floor,”
I mentally correct her,
as my mother begins to wage the battle on my behalf.
But still, she only speaks to me, voice getting louder and louder.
“Get OFF the floor. You are not allowed to lie on the floor!”
My mother finally rises from her seat,
putting aside the flannel she had been using the wipe my face dry.
“How dare you yell at my daughter while she is in this condition.
She cannot physically get off the floor. If she could, she would.
Do you think she wants to be laying on your dirty floor? No!
She needs a bed, and she needs medical attention, which is why we are here.”
The nurse stares at my mum, and walks back behind the safety of the door.

Three minutes later, I am in the examination room.
They brought out a wheelchair for me so I didn’t have to ‘walk’.
I do my best to whisper a few answers before the doctor stops asking questions.
He prods and pokes. I vomit and sweat.
He checks my eyes with his torch and I wince from the light.
He listens to my heart and he worries. I vomit and sweat.
He tells me he will be right back.
He is calling out that he needs a bed, “Clear a bed!”
I am lifted onto a bed with wheels. I am wheeled into the Emergency Room.
I see the woman who has been kicked out of her bed, she is sitting in a wheelchair in the isle.
She is having no trouble sitting.
I do not even feel bad.
I only feel relieved. I’m here, I made it here.

It can only get better from here.

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