Devils in Disguise

The ER was the last place I wanted to be. Unless you’re half-dead, it can take hours before your name is called, and then you’re taken to a room where you sit and wait some more. That’s why I decided to go by ambulance. Made sense to me.

When we arrived at the ER, I was pleasantly surprised to see a smiling nurse standing beside a gurney waiting for me. Elated that my plan worked, I imagined being whisked away to a happy, sunshiny room and covered with a warm, fuzzy blanket. No waiting. No begging for pain relievers. No getting the brush-off like a bum on Skid Row.

And there’s my room. My cold and lonely little room, where I was wheeled on a bed of nails, writhing in pain and left to slowly freeze to death. Where are my people? My angels of mercy? My warm, fuzzy blanket? My PAINKILLERS?!!

My husband’s warm hands and sympathetic eyes were the only comforts in this desolate room. I’m grateful for him. I love him to death. He’s my best friend, my Knight in shining armor. But right now, I’d trade him in a heartbeat for a painkiller!

The minutes crawled by. Then an hour. Then another. Finally, a nurse came in, his smile brighter than his snow-white jacket, asking more questions than Judge Judy. “What’s your name? How old are you? Are you allergic to anything? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain?”

Finally, the song and dance ended, and Mr. Sunshine shot out the door, promising to return with something for pain.

And I waited, and waited, and waited.

Pacing the floor, my husband opened the door, and across the hall, the nurse’s station was buzzing with important stuff, like drinking coffee and clowning around with their buddies! No wonder patients are put on hold for so long. But what do I know? I’m just a bag of bones with one foot in the grave, praying to be put out of my misery.

My husband is a patient, loving man, and would rather cut off his arm than confront anyone. But when he stormed out the door, I started praying.

I don’t know what he said, and I don’t care, but within seconds, a host of nurses sheepishly appeared.

Seconds later, an absent-minded X-ray technician rushed in, got me out of bed, then flew out the door and down the hall, leaving me limping behind like a three-legged dog. Suddenly, as if remembering to pick up his kids from school, he stopped, spun around, and gasped, “Oh! Do you need a wheelchair?”

And my brain screamed: Are you kidding me?! I needed a wheelchair when you broke my back, jerking me off the bed! No, I’m good. I always walk like this after being hit by a train!

Finally, with no help from him, I dragged my twisted body through the door, feeling as naked as a plucked chicken beneath the flimsy, paper-thin hospital gown.

Barely looking my way, he says, “Stand here, stand there, turn that way, turn this way, hold your breath, breathe. We’re done; you can go back to your room.”

How thoughtful of him.

No sooner than I crawled back on the bed, he rushed through the door again. “I’m so sorry! But I need a few more pictures, but you don’t have to get up. You can lie right there.”

There was nothing human about this elf-like, dark-haired guy. Like a drunk driver, he zigzagged his X-ray machine beside my bed, banging it, apologizing, and banging it again. I felt like I was auditioning for The Three Stooges!

“Lift your bottom,” he said, his voice hurried and apologetic. “I need to slide this board under you.”

Up until that moment, I was as brave as a lion. No tears, no moaning and groaning, no screaming and yelling; not even a whimper. But when he SHOVED that board under me, that’s when I died and went to Hell! That’s when demons ripped my flesh apart and began eating me alive. That’s when I yelled. When I bawled like a baby! When I screamed like a burning witch!

I actually felt a twinge of pity for the little guy. Despite his clumsiness, he was frantically trying not to hurt me. And insane with pain, I was frantically trying not to knock his teeth out!

Then, like a hit-and-run driver, everyone gathered their gear and left my mutilated body to slowly bleed to death. No warm, fuzzy blanket. No painkillers. No hope of getting out of this hospital alive.

Another hour crawled by before Mr. Sunshine finally returned with something for pain.

Dare I believe this charming, white-toothed devil? Dare I trust those baby blues? That mesmerizing smile? You decide. He handed me a wee, little, tiny pill in a wee, little, tiny cup and said, “Chew it up. It’ll work faster.”

What planet am I on?!!

From across the hall, moans for help were cut short with a flippant, “Take a deep breath!”

And I felt like screaming, “It doesn’t work!”

Suddenly, the technician ran back in and cheered, “No broken bones!”

Yay! I feel so much better now!

A few minutes later, Mr. Sunshine returned with a jackhammer and jammed it into my hip. To ease the pain, he said. It didn’t.

An hour later, I was discharged. Really? Just when I was beginning to like it here.

Feeling like I’d just spent a week in the Twilight Zone, I hobbled with my husband arm-in-arm down the long, dimly lit corridor. No wheelchair. No Painkillers. No warm, fuzzy blankets. It’s as if I came to the ER with a chopped-off arm, and they slapped a Band-Aid on it and sent me home.

But wait! Hell’s fury isn’t finished with me yet. No sooner than my husband helped me to a chair before leaving to get the car, an Amazon woman with a Freddy Krueger scowl told me to get up because someone else needed to sit there!

Seriously?! I’ve just been put through a meat grinder! Can’t you at least pretend to be a human for five seconds?!

Lessons I learned in the ER:
If you’re not having a heart attack, take the car.
If you’re in pain, suck it up.
If you’re in a hurry, stay home.
If you want special treatment, go to the spa.
If you want amusement, go to Disneyland; it’s cheaper!