Long day’s journey into night
It has been so long since I have posted that I have gone through the shame and come out the other end. Ima just hand out the points retroactively. (Yes, yes I can do that, because I am the self-appointed judge of humanity.)
This is the post I should have written at the end of November. If you recall, I had my first entirely legitimate excuse. One minute I am enjoying a lovely takeout sushi dinner with my spouse, and the next minute I am curled up in foetal position on the bathroom floor googling “acute back pain” in between dry heaves.
Google and the nurse at triage agreed: kidney stone. So that’s where the initial retroactive point goes- to the Canadian and Quebec health care systems.
It took two hours, 23 minutes and 45 seconds for me to see an intern, and then another 12 minutes and 8 seconds to see a real doctor to get an order for morphine, and then another 17 minutes for fucking nurse Helga to hook up my meds. I just lay there on a stretcher in the hallway of Major Emergencies vomiting periodically into an ironically kidney shaped basin and whimpering gently so as not to appear like one of the neighborhood junkies who stopped in for meds.
Things are looking good for the Apocalypse. Excruciating pain. Helplessness. Annoyingly cliché blue gown missing two of the three ties that should attach it in back. And since I am parked in a hallway, I get whiplash everytime an orderly wheels some other helpless fucker down the hall. Did I mention that I am dry-heaving all this time?
But eventually I do get the morphine, when all nursing attention is no longer required by the man who is screaming that his asshole is itchy. As the nurse injects the drug into my IV, I lie back and wait for my first groovily legal opiate moment. But what I get is a lot more Eugene O’Neil than Timothy Leary, and it’s a Long Day’s Journey Into Night.
For twelve hours, I sit propped up on my stretcher with my mouth open, drifting in and out of sleep, vomiting occasionally in my ironic basin. I long to lie down on my stretcher, but I am too drug addled to ask the orderlies who keep crashing into me to lower the back of the thing.
I could go on (e.g. with a description of the food), but you get the picture. The Apocalypse is rubbing its hairly little palms with glee.
But I spent the night in a hospital being cared for by overworked but highly trained professional nurses, I saw an intern and two doctors, and had several doses of morphine, an expensive anti-nausea drug and an emergency CT scan, and it cost me $3. For the taxi to the hospital.
The Apocalypse: 23.5