ER
August 4th, 2005
Musings
For me, having heart palpitations during pregnancy is normal. But having heart pain is not. The OB nurse recommended that I go to the ER to get my oxygen levels checked, and get an EKG.
Knowing how things can go in the ER, I figured it would take a couple of hours to get my tests done. No problem. Kids were home with Grandma (good timing on that visit, Mom).
At first I enjoyed (?) the full attention of the staff. Chest pain + obvious pregnancy = brisk concern. Half reclined on my narrow “bed,” I had three people working on me at once–one inserted an IV and drew blood, one stuck approximately three dozen sticky lead attachments all over my body (yes, several of them looked like stri-dex pads), one peppered me with questions (Who’s here with me today? Nobody. Was I short of breath? was I nauseated? Of course, I’m pregnant). Thankfully the EKG was normal. The air of crisis departed, along with the nurses. And the waiting began.
It went something like this: nurse announces that attending physician would be in shortly. Wait 40 minutes. Attending physician comes in for five minutes, announces that nurse would be in to do x,y, or z. Wait forty minutes. Repeat.
I was fine for a while. I read my two People magazines, and tried not to think about my aching IV arm (the needle was at an odd angle), my filling bladder, and my rumbling stomach. But after a couple of hours I began to wilt. I couldn’t get off the bed because of the tangle of leads. There was no call button, so if I wanted to get someone’s attention I had wait, or call out into the hall when I saw shoes passing by beneath the door curtain. Normally I don’t mind being alone; in fact, I count it a singular treat. But there was something about the surroundings, the occasion, the multiple discomforts, that resulted in acute loneliness. I felt like I had entered some alternate reality–that the entire universe consisted of my little ER cubby. I got weak and dizzy from hunger (couldn’t eat until they knew I wouldn’t be having surgery). During the fourth hour, I actually cried.
At the start of the sixth hour, after analyzing the monitor readouts, the lab results, and the chest CT scan, they couldn’t find anything wrong with me. Of course I was grateful. After I ripped off all the adhesive pads and some of my skin, I was also grateful to perch on the edge of my bed and eat my hospital dinner. I even turned on the TV, which I could finally reach, as I shoveled in my cheeseburger.
CNN was showing footage of starvation in Niger.
Later that night as I tried to settle into sleep on my comfy bed at home, I felt something sharp and scratchy poking a tender spot on my side. It was one of the square lead attachments I had overlooked. I ripped it off and tried to rub away the remaining adhesive. But I could use one on my soul somewhere, a nagging, poking token to remind me how little I know of hunger, pain, and loneliness.
