I was at work last Friday, the... what was that? The 20th? Yeah, the 20th. Anyway. I suddenly was having horrible chest pains, shortness of breath, dizzyness... it was festive. I became the center of a small drama at the salon. One of my coworkers, Peter, wanted to call 911. Me being without insurance, I declined, since an ambulance ride costs many dollars, and I figured my husband could do the job. Peter called my husband, who was approximately 35 minutes away, and I hung out in the fetal position on the floor in the changing room with a cold, wet towel on my neck. I only got peace by promising to let Peter call an ambulance if the pain got any worse. He's sweet, and I understand his worry, but not having insurance means that any step taken that doesn't have to be will be paid for for the REST of my LIFE. I was sticking it out, short of loss of consciousness, for my spouse to come get me.
Jonathan shows up, I limp to the car with a little help, and brooking no argument he takes me to the Emergency Room. All I could do is sit and hear 'CHA-CHING' all the way to the hospital. It actually hasn't stopped yet. Every time I think about getting the bill in the mail, I have to pop a Maalox. Shouldn't they have to have a list of prices and shit while you're THERE to tell you which part of your leg they'll be taking for your visit? Or if it might be, in fact, an arm AND a leg?
I get an EKG. It takes all of two minutes. No, I'm not kidding. It literally took two minutes. And I haven't seen an itemized bill yet, but I'm willing to bet that those two minutes weren't free. They take these little things with adhesive *like the kind on the back of the T.V. Guide address labels that you roll into little glue balls when you're bored* and stick them all over your body. Then they plug little cords into them, turn on the machine, and for maybe 30 seconds or so, it sits there spitting out paper, then voila! You're done, move along, nothing to see here. I hate that part, too. You KNOW that chick that ran the test can tell something from the test, but does she tell you? Noooooooooooooo. Gotta wait for the doctor for that one, and you'll not be seeing him for another hour, minimum. Bastards.
So then it's off to the exam room. Oh, wait, scratch that. Then it's off to the WAITING room, where I get to catch a short nap. While on our way into the waiting room, there's this chick in a wheelchair... she has her leg in some kind of splint or something, and she's blocking most of the aisle. Jonathan and I, while walking by her fully extended leg, accidentally bump into her foot. Well, he did, but since it was only because he was helping me to WALK, I'll share responsibility. She howled at him while clutching her leg. I wasn't feeling charitable. All I could think was... well, actually I didn't just think it, I kind of said it, out loud, to my husband, who almost had a coronary worrying she'd heard me... why the FUCK didn't she scoot her wheelchair BACK about two feet so that people could walk through WITHOUT bumping into her leg? There was plenty of room behind her, and if it was MY leg that was so tender that a small bump on the foot caused me mortal agony, I'd sure as hell keep it OUT OF THE GODDAMNED WAY! Especially considering WHERE she was... a hospital waiting room. Think maybe there'll be people in and out that aren't fully functional and able to AVOID your foot sticking out in the aisle? Yeah, imagine that.
So after a catnap on the waiting room chairs, it's off to the exam room. The usual routine: strip naked, put on the gown with unusual holes and ties and configuration thereof, and wait... and wait... and wait... eventually a nurse comes *male nurse, which you still don't see a lot of, interestingly enough* and tells me I'll be going for x-rays. Okey dokey. I inform him my chest is hurting again. I'm told the doctor will see me ... soon. Yeah, right. Off I go, after another short nap on the exam table, to get my x-rays. The x-ray tech that comes to wheel me off is a super nice girl, but it's hard for me to get past her speech impediment. Not to be mean, but she sounds like ... well, there's no nice way to put this... Elmer Fudd. There, I said it. This in NO way reflects on her personality or ability to do her job... she was great on both counts. But to try talking to her and hear that without busting a gut at least ONCE was killing me. Call me shallow. I can take it.
Finally see the doctor. He's entirely too perky for an ER doctor. He asks me if I'm a smoker. I say yes, at which point he thumps me in the forehead. No, I'm not kidding. *taps forehead* Right there. Tells me to stop it. Yeah, I'll get right on that. Basically he breaks it down for me that my cardiac is 'clean' *well, that's comforting... I was really worried about a dusty cardiac*, my x-rays are also 'clean' *I would hope so... it's a hospital... isn't EVERYTHING supposed to be clean?*, and the diabetes test I'd asked for, at my mother's behest, while I was there was low, but still in the normal range, not diabetic. He then informs me that he 'thinks' that what I had was an esophageal spasm. 'Thinks'? Is this a word I WANT to hear when paying out the ass for medical help to a very painful problem? Not so much. He tells me it mimics a massive heart attack, and will bring *and I quote directly here* 'the biggest man DOWN'. So at least I wasn't being a wuss and coming to the ER because I have no pain tolerance. Anyone would have thought they were having a heart attack. He throws in a couple of other things it 'might' be *woohoo, thanks for THAT*, but stresses he thinks it's the esophageal spasm. Lucky me. Says there's really nothing to be done unless it becomes a recurring problem. Basically leave the hospital, cross my fingers, and hope for the best. The man obviously doesn't know about my luck...
For this I'm going to most likely receive a bill that WILL give me the actual massive heart attack. Ain't life grand?
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