Man, I'm glad it's this week and not last week. 'Cause I was having so much fun for a few days there that I don't know if I could have taken much more of it. It got to the point Friday night where I was having such a ball that it became clear I needed to drag myself to an emergency room. Phoned a friend, got a recommendation for a good hospital, grabbed a taxi.
A chubby munchkin of a woman met me as I stumbled through the emergency entrance, asking what was up. I thought the answer would be obvious, given my pathetic state. Apparently not. As nicely as I could, I told her I was ailing. She referred me to a small room ringed with what looked like bullet-proof plastic which fronted numerous receptionist stations, all of which were vacant. A woman in another enclosure saw me, came over and said, "Dígame." ("Tell me.") I told her. She asked if I had a health card, I said no. She asked if I had a credit card, I said yes, but not with me. (I'd barely managed to get myself dressed, forgot to put on a belt so that my pants -- never a tight fit to begin with -- were drooping noticeably after three long days of being unable to consume anything but water.) I had some cash with me, when I mentioned that she said she couldn't take money, sternly instructing me to return to the hospital the next morning and proceed directly to the correct office to settle up. I intended to pay, but only after I'd had the weekend to recover from the fun of the past few days. I didn't tell her that -- just said, "Vale" ("Okay"), let her take my passport info., accepted a receipt to present when I returned to pay, then headed to the E.R. desk.
A medical type there said, "Dígame." I diga'd. They nodded, took my name, took my blood pressure, told me it was fine, led me to the nearest waiting room -- there were several, all lined up next to each other. An omen I might have taken note of if I'd been feeling clearer.
Now that I think about it, though, the first one, the one they gently dumped me in -- white linoleum floor, white ceiling, white walls, ugly four-unit modular plastic seats, fluorescent lights -- was a genuine waiting room. A holding pen where you did nothing but enjoy whatever condition had brought you to the E.R. to begin with, watching everyone else do the same. The other waiting areas were all rooms with counters, sinks, storage cabinets (packed with medical supplies), oxygen masks, comfier chairs, and a spartan bed at one end where the occasional individual spent time.
A universal truth, known from earlier times working in an ambulance, rediscovered in the course of this outing: there is nothing quite like an emergency room in a hospital in a large city on Friday and Saturday nights. Emergency rooms see it all anyway -- on a weekend night in a major population center, it's just that much more of a party. All sorts of characters show up, in all sorts of states. It is one lively display.
The first waiting room contained two rows of plastic seats, facing each other, people sitting in them. Nothing else. No tables, no rugs, no TV, nothing on the walls, though one had a large window looking out on the E.R. desk. Nothing to read. No distractions. I slowly, carefully planted myself in one row of seats -- one person occupied each end seat, leaving two open seats, so that I had to sit next to one of the two people. After three or four minutes, the woman I planted myself next to got up, relocated to another part of the room.
An elderly couple sat together in the opposing row of seats, off to my left, in the corner. Normal folk -- the woman small, grey-haired, serious expression, the husband larger with a bit of a stomach, receding hair, expression also serious. Impossible to tell which was the patient until the husband pulled out a large plastic bag, began vomiting and hawking up stuff into it. A 20-something guy sat across from me, wearing sports clothes/sneakers. Not looking like he'd come from a sporting event, just doing the casual thing. (A bunch of people showed up that evening wearing training pants and sweat shirts or training jackets. With sneakers. A popular ensemble.) Nothing visibly wrong with him. Didn't look like he felt ill. No apparent injury. He simply sat quietly, watching the rest of the inmates.
An older man shuffled slowly into the room -- late 70s, cane-assisted, mouth opening and closing. Baggy pants, slack white shirt. Small in stature and build, unshaven, each cheek/ear sporting streaks of scars and discolored skin from serious lesions at an earlier age. Couldn't make out his current complaint either. Maybe he was there for the sensory input of it all. He spent his time shuffling in and out of the room, gazing around. Other inmates came and went. Now and then a nurse materialized, called out a name, an inmate got up, follow her away.
Forty-five minutes into my stay a nurse wheeled an elderly woman into our holding pen, explaining to her that she'd have to wait there until a doctor could see her. The elderly woman replied, "Vale, vale," the nurse took off. Time passed, the new arrival began going "Ayyyy!" every few seconds. Once in a while she'd reach around, place her hand on one side of her lower back for a moment, saying, "Ayyyy!"
An hour and fifteen minutes later, a nurse appeared, called my name. I staggered to my feet, followed her into an examination room.