We arrive at the ER. In order to mitigate the spinning I keep my eyes closed. I give one word answers and let Diane, Teri or Adam answer as many questions as they can on my behalf.
I’m stuck in triage. Apparently there’s someone outside who will get quite upset if I’m admitted before her husband despite the fact that my “case” is worse than hers.
Two nights ago, I would have let everyone cut me in line. Tonight is a different situation.
They're going to wheel me out the back to avoid more drama.
We arrive in a pediatric room. Teri and Diane note of the train tracks on the ceiling and the poorly painted mural. And a large crib.
I could give a shit about décor.
They need to take off the dress to put on a hospital gown.
“CUT IT OFF” I say, in one of my, admittedly, more dramatic moments.
The ER doctor advises us that my meningitis like symptoms are typical of the hemorrhage. But, he notes that he’s not familiar with “my case” and my attending physician won’t be in until the morning.
Hmmm. These are things it would have been good to mention before they wheeled me to the exit earlier today. I’m silently drafting a letter of protest to my insurance company should I get charged for Round II admission to the ER.
All this is happening, mind you, between bouts of nausea.
It’s late and Adam has to return to work tomorrow so he heads home. I know all is forgiven but I still apologize for being bitchy about the flowers and then inadvertently tripping him on the way to the hospital.
I know I’m not an easy one to comfort and that I can be incredibly belligerent and irritable when I’m not feeling well. Thanks to the people who love me anyway.
They give me another CAT Scan. The contrast in my demeanor tonight between tonight and two nights ago is remarkable. Tonight, I could care less about getting a CD. Tonight, they had to transport me from the gurney to the CAT Scan table using a sheet.
Tonight, I feel like a patient.
Fortunately the CAT Scan shows no change in the bleeding.
When I return, Diane indicates concern that I’m running on empty. She’s been present for 90% of my vomiting so she would know.
Shortly thereafter they’re setting me up or an IV and this time they’re going to use it. Teri compliments me on my calmness about the needle. It’s not calmness. Pain is relative.
They set the IV to “fast delivery” and immediately I feel the life coming back into me. Diane and Teri notice the color return to my face.
I feel well enough to eat a cracker. No such luck. The cracker wants out.