I wrote the following after being rushed to Sunset Hospital from a trade show in Las Vegas. Spending 24 hours as doctors run test after test on you will change your perspective on life. Hopefully you find some humor in these words. At the time it was decidedly NOT funny. The old adage is true…
Tragedy + Time = Comedy
Being pushed on a gurney is cool for about three seconds until you realize that you aren’t three and this might be serious. Then you notice several things. First, the lights do pass overhead like they do on television shows, but the person pushing you is much less attractive. They also have less witty lines but far more compassion than the actors on TV. Eventually you stop making eye contact with anyone you pass because you feel suddenly small and vulnerable. This is bad when wearing a trade show shirt with black slacks (notice I didn’t say pants) and gets worse when you are wearing a medical gown with your black socks sticking out of a hospital issue blanket keeping your legs warm.
You see a sign in front of a door that says:
MR Zone #3
Do Not Enter
Is Mister Zone #3 a super hero? What happened to Mister Zone #1 and #2? What super powers does a Mister Zone have? Can you lift metal things with your mind? Can you teleport? Teleportation would be really cool and could open up a whole host of job opportunities. If I go into the room do I become Mister Zone #4? If the sign says Do Not Enter, how will I get into the room for my test?
MR Zone #3 has wood floors that are better than any in my house. You remember how you used to play basketball on shiny floors like that, imagining that you were making the winning shot in the NCAA tournament. Embarrassingly, you remember that you STILL imagine that scenario when shooting hoops in the driveway of your suburban house. You were never very good at basketball, even though you are tall, and the technician interrupts the thought to put your ass on the cold MRI table.
The first buzz of the MRI sounds like the machine noise from Welcome to the Machine by Pink Floyd. A series of buzzing noise, each with a different tone, reminds you of three of the notes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. A clicking sound follows that and brings the tap dancing scene from Young Frankenstein into your head. Is the MRI beaming popular culture references into your head? Should you be scared that all your mental references are from popular media? Perhaps I should read more books. You open your eyes and realize that the machine is two inches from your forehead. Maybe you are claustrophobic. You almost scream then catch yourself. The single most important thing someone can learn is the ability to control your breathing and lower your heart rate. The words “pants” and “white” keep flashing in your subconscious. Somehow you make it through.
Did you know that when they give you a CAT scan they sometimes use something called contrast to see things better? Did you know that when they really fire up the machine that the contrast actually heats up on your bloodstream and you feel like you are cooking from the inside out?
When in your senior year at college, you lived in a dorm called Hillsides. Your hospital room number is 417. This might have been the same as your dorm room number, but then the number 413 pops into your head. Suddenly you’re not sure of the number anymore. You miss college badly. You feel very old.
Having an elderly British stroke patient moved into your room at 1:30 in the morning is aggravating yet entertaining at the same time. He sees flies all over the walls and wants EVERYONE to know about this. How could they possibly move him to his third room in two days when he was sleeping soundly? He makes sense to you. Does he know you are there? Does he care? Perhaps there really are flies on the wall and you can’t see them. He also sees lice in his bed. You suddenly get itchy. After an hour and a half of this show you gain an untold appreciation for a group of nurses that never lose their tempers even when they are accused of lying about the flies. You also realize that you are compassionate because you understand that the British stoke patient needs more help than you. No no anger can be found for your lack of sleep.
The IV drip machine beeps whenever you bend your right arm. This sucks. Sometimes you can make it stop beeping by straightening your arm out. Sometimes you have to call the nurse. You find it amusing when the nurse comes to check on you because the little gray box attached to your chest by little sticky things has sent a signal to the Telemetry group. Your heart is only 38 beats a minute. This is amusing because your heart is usually 45 beats a minute and 38 doesn’t sound so low. No, I don’t run marathons. Does it look like this body runs marathons?
The British stroke patient wakes up fairly early in the morning to call his girlfriend and recounts his trials and tribulations of a late night room change. He admits openly to hallucinations. You feel better about your sanity. He is having a major operation tomorrow. You find this out about the same time you learn that you don’t need any operation. He could have been you. Somehow you feel survivor guilt when there was no accident to survive.
Taking a taxi from a hospital to visit your hotel room is VERY weird. Then again, a hotel room has never felt so good. You nap, shower and quickly leave the hotel room to take a walk. Sitting about leads to thinking and thinking leads your mind into VERY bad places. You buy a new bracelet to commemorate survival. As you type these words, the bracelet purchase feels hollow. Regardless, you are still wearing the bracelet to remind yourself of what happened.
Writing these words on the page somehow does help a bit.
Need to stop thinking and just keep busy. If nothing is wrong with you, why do you feel so unnerved and unsettled?