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Morphine is lovely
Jun. 19th, 2009 02:06 pmI was sent to the emergency room at a nearby hospital after my appointment at the doctor yesterday. I was phenomenally frightened at the idea, not only because my only experience of the inside of hospitals has been things like this - but it wasn't for anything life-threatening. My doctor just thought that it would be better for me to be properly observed that day rather than stewing at home again and worrying about having to go to hospital later.
I have to admit that in the lobby area the pace of everything seemed remarkably non-frantic for anything that dealt with emergencies. But eventually I was sent through to the patient area and shown into a private curtained compartment. This had a thin folding chair/bed thing that I was to be attached to for the next few hours, connected up with an intravenous drip needled into my right arm and a pulse monitor sellotaped to my left hand, strung up like a demented marionette. It certainly made getting up to use the toilet without breaking anything a puzzle of Crystal Maze-like proportions.
I was left alone for a while, listening to the beeping of the heart and blood pressure monitors from above my head as well as in other compartments around me, and just trying to imagine for my own comfort that I was lying next to the checkouts at Tesco. After a while watching the clock going around I was seen by the doctor, poked and prodded a bit, had a painkiller added to the tube stuck into my arm and was then wheeled down to radiology to be fed through a CAT scan machine that looked like a giant metallic doughnut with the voice of a Dalek that kept telling me to BREATHE IN. HOLD YOUR BREATH. BREAAATTHHHHHEEE.
On the way back I realized the narcotic painkiller was beginning to take effect, which made things just fantastic. I had declined to have the TV on when I was first waiting, which had made things quiet but more bearable, but suddenly, staring at the notches on the ceiling seemed like the greatest entertainment ever. It was at this point that Whitney arrived, having got out of a meeting that she had had in the morning and finally found the pained phone message that I had left her. I was expecting a tearful reunion when she saw my state, but as the painkiller was flowing all around and through me by then I couldn't stop laughing at the walls and clock. I phoned my boss at this point, too, and I can't remember what it was I said but it resulted in Whitney wresting the phone from me and leaving her own message for him instead.
Time flies when you're on drugs, it seems, and after being given the result of my scan and asking the doctor a lot of questions I was disconnected from everything and let go. (I asked the nurse if it was going to hurt. She said "I won't feel a thing".) I've been given a heap of painkillers, and have to just... drink a lot and wait for things to sort themselves out. Not knowing when I'll be OK again is the worst part.
The theory was also put forward that my entire sickness over the last week had been caused by this condition that had been waiting to happen for some time, and that there wasn't actually anything wrong with the sushi that I ate after all. But I doubt it.
I have to admit that in the lobby area the pace of everything seemed remarkably non-frantic for anything that dealt with emergencies. But eventually I was sent through to the patient area and shown into a private curtained compartment. This had a thin folding chair/bed thing that I was to be attached to for the next few hours, connected up with an intravenous drip needled into my right arm and a pulse monitor sellotaped to my left hand, strung up like a demented marionette. It certainly made getting up to use the toilet without breaking anything a puzzle of Crystal Maze-like proportions.
I was left alone for a while, listening to the beeping of the heart and blood pressure monitors from above my head as well as in other compartments around me, and just trying to imagine for my own comfort that I was lying next to the checkouts at Tesco. After a while watching the clock going around I was seen by the doctor, poked and prodded a bit, had a painkiller added to the tube stuck into my arm and was then wheeled down to radiology to be fed through a CAT scan machine that looked like a giant metallic doughnut with the voice of a Dalek that kept telling me to BREATHE IN. HOLD YOUR BREATH. BREAAATTHHHHHEEE.
On the way back I realized the narcotic painkiller was beginning to take effect, which made things just fantastic. I had declined to have the TV on when I was first waiting, which had made things quiet but more bearable, but suddenly, staring at the notches on the ceiling seemed like the greatest entertainment ever. It was at this point that Whitney arrived, having got out of a meeting that she had had in the morning and finally found the pained phone message that I had left her. I was expecting a tearful reunion when she saw my state, but as the painkiller was flowing all around and through me by then I couldn't stop laughing at the walls and clock. I phoned my boss at this point, too, and I can't remember what it was I said but it resulted in Whitney wresting the phone from me and leaving her own message for him instead.
Time flies when you're on drugs, it seems, and after being given the result of my scan and asking the doctor a lot of questions I was disconnected from everything and let go. (I asked the nurse if it was going to hurt. She said "I won't feel a thing".) I've been given a heap of painkillers, and have to just... drink a lot and wait for things to sort themselves out. Not knowing when I'll be OK again is the worst part.
The theory was also put forward that my entire sickness over the last week had been caused by this condition that had been waiting to happen for some time, and that there wasn't actually anything wrong with the sushi that I ate after all. But I doubt it.
