The Ride
Picture this: My husband and I were cruising in a Lyft in route to the Emergency Room, and the driver, with all the earnestness of a worried parent, asked, “Should I call an ambulance?” I couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle and think, “Sir, if I thought an ambulance was in order, I’d have dialed 911 faster than you can say ’emergency.'”
But here’s the kicker: my husband was shivering like a leaf in a hoodie and cocooned in a blanket. You’d imagine the driver, a master of climate control in his four-wheeled chariot, would notice and offer to tweak the air conditioning settings. Alas, in this age of self-absorption, his primary concern seemed to be avoiding the awkward scenario of my husband flatlining in his backseat, especially since he’d just plucked us from the welcoming embrace of a local motel.
Now, I can’t help but point out that I’m as white as a marshmallow, while my husband boasts a complexion that can best be described as “rich mocha.” I couldn’t help but wonder if the driver’s initial thoughts took a detour through a mental maze of overdramatic TV shows. But, trust me, that’s not the tale I had in mind to regale you with today.
The arrival
Now, as we strutted into Flagstaff Medical Center, I couldn’t help but feel like a character in a sitcom. To my left, a room jam-packed with more people than you’d find at a surprise birthday party for a popular rock star. They were practically standing nose to nose, as if auditioning for a human Tetris championship. On my right, a young Native girl, accompanied by her well-intentioned aunt, had a schooltime snack that transformed her into the world’s worst marionette. She couldn’t control her eye movements, maintain her balance, or even spill the beans about what mysterious substance she’d ingested. She clung to a plastic bag like it was a lifeline, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was practicing for the world’s oddest talent show.
Meanwhile, my husband had reached peak discomfort and decided to turn his hospital wait into an impromptu picnic. He headed outside to a bench, fully embracing the “lying down on the job” concept. The hospital staff, taking pity on his suffering, kindly provided him with a wheelchair and politely requested that he stay put until they could officially check him in.
Despite his pain, he couldn’t resist repeatedly voicing his desire to make a run for it and return home. I watched him, feeling like I was in a melodramatic soap opera, wondering how his pain managed to one-up the time I had to play hip-realignment superhero and snap his dislocated hip back into place not once, but a whopping eight times.
We are still waiting (Emergency)
Back inside, my husband was putting on quite the dramatic performance, shedding tears that could rival a marathon-viewing of a tearjerker movie. It was like he was auditioning for an award, surrounded by a captive audience in the waiting room.
After a heroic effort involving charm, persistence, and a well-timed interpretive dance routine, I managed to summon a nurse to triage him. Lo and behold, the assessment revealed a temperature of 101 degrees Fahrenheit (or, as we like to call it in the medical world, “one degree away from a full-blown fever”), a blood pressure reading of 135/78 (which sounded impressive, at least to us), and abdominal pain so intense that it turned my husband into a human fidget spinner. Despite this, the verdict was a trip back to the waiting room, as if we were in a real-life sequel to “Waiting Room: The Neverending Saga.”
Desperation kicked in, and my husband decided to unleash his inner lounge lizard, opting for the floor as his throne of pain relief. He nestled himself beneath the counter in the back of the lobby, strategically positioning himself adjacent to the restroom. Now, let me tell you, a restroom within an emergency room waiting area is like an undiscovered realm of sensory experiences. The sights, sounds, and, uh, distinct aromas emanating from that little chamber could fill a whole chapter in a book of awkward tales. Trust me; it’s a place where your senses go to vacation, and you’d rather not be the guest of honor.
Waiting to wait (The dreadful Emergency Room)
So, there we were, settling into our makeshift camp in the Emergency waiting room, when the nurse dropped the bombshell: a whopping 6-8 hour wait! It was like a grim reality show where the prize was a glimpse of the elusive doctor. Some lucky contestants, or patients in this case, were even receiving a one-way ticket to Verde Valley Medical Center in Cottonwood, as if they’d just won the “Out-of-Space” lottery. Evidently, Flagstaff Medical Center was feeling a bit like a hotel with no vacancies, except it came with all the charm of a hospital waiting room.
Amid this medical merry-go-round, my mind resembled a hamster on an espresso bender, racing with worries about how we’d finance our impromptu waiting room vacation, how I’d miraculously teleport to Cottonwood to join my suffering spouse, and whether we’d escape this ER saga with our sanity intact.
But, as they say, when life gives you an ER waiting room, you make it your temporary residence and embrace the waiting game like a champ. After all, what’s a few hours—or days—in the grand scheme of things, right?
And we are still waiting
My husband, meanwhile, is performing a high-stakes interpretive dance routine, shifting back and forth, groaning in discomfort like he’s auditioning for the lead role in “The Restless Tango.” As I sit here typing, it feels like every keystroke on the laptop is slowly escalating to the decibel level of a rock concert.
And here I am, contemplating life’s great mysteries, like whether I should have cooked those onion burgers and fries we had for dinner tonight. I mean, is it wrong to dream about food when you’re in an emergency room? My mind is like a pinball machine, bouncing from one thought to another at warp speed.
I’m also becoming an expert in name recognition because I hear name after name after name being called. Until suddenly, I don’t hear names or the door anymore. Ah, yes, the legendary shift change! It’s like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, but with more scrubs and less royal fanfare.
I resign myself to the fact that we might be here for eternity. But hey, what else can we do? The man I adore with every fiber of my being is sprawled on the floor of a hospital waiting room, writhing in agony. So, I’ll keep typing away, dreaming of onion burgers, and counting the minutes until our ER saga finally reaches its conclusion.
Wait no more
Rob, in a moment of floor rebellion, declared, “I shall not be floored any longer!” So, in true superhero fashion, we summoned an Uber. But alas, the triumphant return home didn’t quite live up to expectations. His transformation from a floor dweller to a groaning, pain-yelling, and uncontrollably-moving entity commenced immediately. It was like watching a dramatic interpretive dance of agony, and this performance continued for what felt like an eternity (but was really just a few hours).
And Again The Emergency Room
After embarking on a thrilling adventure filled with more vomit than a rollercoaster ride and the sudden realization that our next destination was the Emergency Room (again!), we found ourselves face to face with the Triage Nurse. She looked at our sorry state and rated it a him a 2 which sent us back to the waiting room. But fear not, for our time in the spotlight eventually arrived, and we were summoned for a starring role in the medical drama – the EKG episode. Awaiting the results with bated breath, we watched as the Doc made a dramatic entrance, donning their stethoscope like a superhero cape. They declared, “We need a CT scan!”
Finally, we managed to extricate ourselves from the linoleum dance floor and scored a cozy bed, which was more inviting than a five-star hotel suite. With a cocktail of pain relief, anti-nausea meds, and IV fluids, we braced ourselves for the impending CT scan.
After the scan, we ascended to the heavenly realm of a private room. It felt like an exclusive VIP lounge, and Rob had the chance to rest, like a weary traveler awaiting the results of a cosmic lottery. Drumroll, please… Good news, folks! No surgery required! The bad news? They diagnosed it as a viral infection. So, armed with this thrilling verdict, we embarked on our return journey home, where we anticipated hours that would inevitably stretch into days of pain and discomfort.
Stay tuned for the next episode in this saga of medical misadventures! To be continued… (Cue dramatic music.)
Response Magic