Tuesday, April 06, 2004
saturday, part 2
Rather than bore you with another lengthy narrative to complete the account of last Saturday night's visit to the local hospital emergency room, please allow me to quote a friend who nailed it: "let me guess: panic attack?"
Yes. The good doctors gave The Good Doctor a handful of valium and sent him on his way.
Valium? Well, after now experiencing both I can safely say I would have preferred a couple of bong hits.
After the whole pissing in the jug thing it got pretty boring. Nothing to do but lie there for about two hours, watching people roll by on gurneys in the hallway who were obviously way more fucked up than I was, and wait for the doctor to return with all the test results.
I looked down at myself and started counting: 1) blood pressure cuff on my left arm; 2) oxymeter probe on my right middle finger; 3) I.V. tube sticking out of my right arm; 4, 5, and 6) leads for the respiration and heart rate monitor stuck on my chest; 7) oxygen canula wrapped around my face and in my nose.
Seven. There were seven tubes and wires connect to or coming out of my body. I had almost this exact thought:
"I'm just a gastrostomy tube short of being as plugged into machines as was The Boy when I first saw him on that Sunday morning that now seems like an eternity ago."
The Boy.
Holy fuck. I sat up as best as I could without pulling anything and looked around at myself and my environment.
I did not understand what was happening to me or why I felt the way I did. I was frightened. The room was cold, antiseptic and artificially bright. I was in a foreign place. I was surrounded by strangers who were doing things to me. They stuck me with needles. They probed me with machines that made loud noises.
This is exactly what happened to The Boy after Ms. von Munchausen attacked him with a suction machine in the middle of the night and rushed him here, to the emergency room.
In that moment I felt the most profound sense of empathy with The Boy. I had a brief first person look into what his experience was like. Except I could communicate with the doctors. I could tell people how I felt. I understood when they explained things to me.
The Boy had no such advantage. He did not know where he was, who he was with, or what was happening to him. He only knew that he was scared and that he was in pain. He was forced to depend upon Ms. von Munchausen as she spewed forth her poisonous lies about him and what had happened to him while arguing with the emergency room doctors about whether the Do Not Resucitate order she illegally signed applied in this case.
Do you remember that scene in "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" when the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day and he got the strength of 10 grinches plus 2? So do I, and I will drop the analogy because the Grinch is a wonderful memory and I will not tarnish it with images of Ms. von Munchausen.
But perhaps you sense the direction I was headed. It wasn't a positive one. My anger, contempt, disgust, revulsion, and sheer undiluted blood-boiling hatred for Ms. von Munchausen spiked and went straight off the charts.
She must be, nay, she will be destroyed.
All for the Love of the Boy.
|
Yes. The good doctors gave The Good Doctor a handful of valium and sent him on his way.
Valium? Well, after now experiencing both I can safely say I would have preferred a couple of bong hits.
After the whole pissing in the jug thing it got pretty boring. Nothing to do but lie there for about two hours, watching people roll by on gurneys in the hallway who were obviously way more fucked up than I was, and wait for the doctor to return with all the test results.
I looked down at myself and started counting: 1) blood pressure cuff on my left arm; 2) oxymeter probe on my right middle finger; 3) I.V. tube sticking out of my right arm; 4, 5, and 6) leads for the respiration and heart rate monitor stuck on my chest; 7) oxygen canula wrapped around my face and in my nose.
Seven. There were seven tubes and wires connect to or coming out of my body. I had almost this exact thought:
"I'm just a gastrostomy tube short of being as plugged into machines as was The Boy when I first saw him on that Sunday morning that now seems like an eternity ago."
The Boy.
Holy fuck. I sat up as best as I could without pulling anything and looked around at myself and my environment.
I did not understand what was happening to me or why I felt the way I did. I was frightened. The room was cold, antiseptic and artificially bright. I was in a foreign place. I was surrounded by strangers who were doing things to me. They stuck me with needles. They probed me with machines that made loud noises.
This is exactly what happened to The Boy after Ms. von Munchausen attacked him with a suction machine in the middle of the night and rushed him here, to the emergency room.
In that moment I felt the most profound sense of empathy with The Boy. I had a brief first person look into what his experience was like. Except I could communicate with the doctors. I could tell people how I felt. I understood when they explained things to me.
The Boy had no such advantage. He did not know where he was, who he was with, or what was happening to him. He only knew that he was scared and that he was in pain. He was forced to depend upon Ms. von Munchausen as she spewed forth her poisonous lies about him and what had happened to him while arguing with the emergency room doctors about whether the Do Not Resucitate order she illegally signed applied in this case.
Do you remember that scene in "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" when the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day and he got the strength of 10 grinches plus 2? So do I, and I will drop the analogy because the Grinch is a wonderful memory and I will not tarnish it with images of Ms. von Munchausen.
But perhaps you sense the direction I was headed. It wasn't a positive one. My anger, contempt, disgust, revulsion, and sheer undiluted blood-boiling hatred for Ms. von Munchausen spiked and went straight off the charts.
She must be, nay, she will be destroyed.
All for the Love of the Boy.
|
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