I woke my mom up at about three thirty this morning. You see, since Thursday, there’s been a pressure on my heart and I was getting random shooting pains that went into my chest and sometimes down my arm. I didn’t say anything for awhile because I thought it would go away.
But I was tired and couldn’t sleep because the pain was nearly unbearable.
On the way to the hospital, I laughed, “If this is my trick, I better get a damn good treat.”
My mom chuckled too and helped me remain positive. Whenever the pain would get too much she would start telling me a story and just keep talking until it passed.
The lady at the Triage desk was...unpleasant. My mother and I quietly discussed her miserable attitude while waiting for the lady at Registration. Key Banger (Registration lady) made us seriously miss Long Face (Triage lady).
In our haste to leave the house after calling 811 (they succinctly told us we shouldn’t be messing around with chest pain like that, “You should have called 911!”) I forgot to grab my wallet. My Carecard is in my wallet.
(You see, we were both scared about the intense pain a twenty-year-old (me) was having and the lady on the phone freaked me out when I talked to her. My Carecard was the last thing on my mind.)
Key Banger (rudely) asked for my care card. She was not at all happy I forgot it (or when I told her I had been to the hospital a hundred times already). She banged her keys viciously – she could not have hit those things any harder (trust me) while she entered in my information. Like really take a hammer to it already! It’ll get the job done quicker.
She was the kind of lady people write short stories about (I told my mom as much).
My mom was disappointed when the room (or curtained off enclosure) I got just had a swivel chair and no bed. I was too. Regardless, I sat there innocently reading the King of Horror’s book on writing again. Instead of reading her book, my mom would sneak out of the enclosure and spy on other people.
Every couple minutes she would come back with some interesting information.
“There’s a guy over there, I think he’s writing a novel.” She said, as I turned a page in my book, “He’s been sitting there for fifteen minutes writing.”
“I think it takes more than fifteen minutes to write a book mom.”
Also, the people across from us had been jumped and one guy got fifteen stitches in his head. My mom had some theories on them...
I got a blood test done (gross). The nurse (who had just finished calling me normal – for my fear of needles) looked at me like I was nuts when I asked, “My blood looks pretty cool, can I have a vial?”
My mom snorted. “I think you’ve been reading too many vampire books.”
“No, no. I read somewhere that an author had a vial of his own blood on his desk. I thought it was kind of cool.”
“He sounds crazy.” The nurse offered as she finished removing the needle (We use this needle on babies, no need to worry about it....obviously that wasn’t very comforting, for someone who is afraid of needles!)
What the nurse didn’t say but was written all over her face was, "You are crazy."
So the only time someone calls me normal they rescind it within five minutes...
My mother – being the light in the dark she is – assured me I was loopy and the nurse calling me normal was just a bad first impression.
My three hours at the hospital finished with me getting stickers on my legs, arms and chest. I felt like I was six(that was the last time I ever wanted to cover myself with stickers).
I’m not entirely past the this-situation-is-awkward-teenage-girl-giggle thing. Because I went red (apparently) and giggled hysterically as the nurse put stickers around my heart (on my bare skin!).
By the time she came back to my chest to hook me to the clips and the wires, my mom, in her unfailing wisdom, pointed out, “at least you’re not red anymore.”
“Yeah well, I figure you went through more embarrassment having me then I’m having right now.”
It was pretty cool watching the machine (all the tubes were connected to a machine) print out a picture with a bunch of squiggly lines on it. It was pretty.
A huge downfall is the pain in my chest could last up to a week. My chest cavity is inflamed (a consequence of my viral infection) and all the medication that helps with inflammation is really bad for asthmatics. So it’s just wading through.
But at least it’s not actually my heart.
As far as trips to the hospital go (and I’ve had plenty) this was probably the most entertaining. Ever.Word Of The Day: ECG (Electrocardiogram) - a test that measures the activity in your heart