A lot has happened since February, when a car crash sent me to an urgent-care curtain cubicle, then to a trauma ER, and eventually home with a liver cyst that had burst. I’ve been meaning to write about it ever since.
But apparently I needed a little time before I could find the funny.
So, six months later, I’m finally ready to tell the story. Mostly because I’m okay now. Also because if you’re going to spend a night in a hospital, you might as well get a story out of it.
A woman I did not recognize peered through the window.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up at her from underneath a limp airbag.
“I think so.”
“Turn your car off!”
I pressed the button and got out.
A car had crashed into mine as I crossed an intersection, and I found myself—and my Camry—on a curb under an old oak tree.
A policewoman appeared to take my insurance and registration. An ambulance parked across the street.
“You okay?” an EMT asked.
I did not know the answer. I considered whether yes or no was accurate, but nothing came out.
“You’re walking and talking.” He raised his eyebrows as his impatience surfaced. “Call me if you need me.”
And off he went.
I hadn’t whacked my head, but in retrospect, I was in shock. My body didn’t feel normal. The impact had left me feeling strange.
Warnings from friends who had taken ambulance rides and later been socked with $2,500 transportation bills made me glad the EMT had gone. I had spared myself the medical-bill headache.
Back home, I walked around stunned. During the impact, my waist had twisted hard under the seatbelt. As my car spun around, my thought was: I probably should do more ab work.
I noticed a dull ache just below my rib cage.
Nothing really.
Or was it?
We were supposed to fly to Florida on Friday, and I should probably make sure I was safe to travel.
The belief that I was fine persisted. I’m always fine. I can also be a bit of a hypochondriac, so I straightened up the house, because apparently my first response to possible internal injuries is light housekeeping. Then I decided I should lie down.
My daughter called and encouraged me to get checked out. It made sense, but what was this hesitation?
The thought of being in the emergency room during flu season was the main deterrent. I had already spent endless hours in ERs with my spouse, kids, and sickly parents.
If I could help it, I would never go to a hospital again.
I’d also been binging The Pitt, a hospital drama that documents, by the hour, a typical day in a Pittsburgh ER. Dr. Robbie, played by Noah Wyle, is the handsome, middle-aged chief of staff.
Maybe the hospital wouldn’t be so bad.
As the afternoon wore on, the ache continued. I talked myself into a compromise: the neighborhood urgent care. It was close by, and if my visit swallowed the rest of the day, at least I’d have a short ride home.
My husband drove me over around 4 p.m. No cars occupied the lot. The waiting room was empty.
Optimism: dangerous, but briefly available.
My exam bay was a room with curtains for walls, bordered by another woman about my age. I didn’t have to guess why she was there. She coughed like it was her job.
“Have you been here long?” I timed my question between coughing fits.
“Hours.” She’d been there since 11 a.m.
Terrible answer.
Two hours passed as we lay side by side, never seeing each other, while I eavesdropped on her conversations with colleagues from work. Finally, the nurse came in and announced that my neighbor had RSV.
“Wear this mask.”
“Oh, I’m a pariah now!” she said, finding humor in her diagnosis.
I stopped breathing and wondered how easily RSV could sail between the gaps in the curtains. I whispered to the nurse that I needed a mask, too.
Great. My worst fear was coming true.
“Oh, and bring my nice black pajamas, honey.” My neighbor was not too sick to think about fashion. Who gets to wear pajamas in the infectious-care unit? She must have coughed part of her brain out.
I was getting pissy waiting there, waiting for RSV to claim me, when I learned that her husband was bringing her a homemade dinner.
Maybe she should wear the black pajamas.
The MRI technician arrived for my dye imaging. By then, I was sure I was absolutely fine and this had all been a colossal waste of time. I was savoring my good fortune at being a healthy person, my upcoming Florida trip, and the fact that I wouldn’t have to spend months fighting incorrectly coded medical bills.
Unless RSV took me down first.
I went back to my windy curtain room.
And waited.
And waited.
The ambulance came to pick up my RSV neighbor around the 7 p.m. shift change. The new nurse introduced herself, then disappeared.
The earlier-shift doctor had assured me my test results would be back by 7, or shortly thereafter.
At 7:15, I asked.
“Nope. Not ready.”
At 8, I was hungry. Local takeout closed soon, and if I ate too late I’d have heartburn all night.
Wasn’t I one of the lucky ones, having only heartburn to worry about?
My husband brought me fast food.
At 8:30, I changed out of my gown and back into my clothes. I was cold, and besides, I wanted to be released.
At 9 p.m., a balding man parted the curtain.
He must be a doctor. I wouldn’t know because he didn’t introduce himself.
Whoever this was, he was all business.
“They found blood by your liver. It’s very serious.”
My liver?
Does this guy know I haven’t had a drink in six years? My liver was the GOAT. I was doing all the things to be healthy, and my liver was fine, more than fine. Thank you very much.
“We’re transporting you to a trauma ER.”
But I felt totally fine. This didn’t make sense. I could have walked home right then. The sensations in my abdomen had disappeared.
“Can my husband drive me there?”
“No.”
So much for bedside manner.
I couldn’t believe I was going to be a trauma patient.
An hour later, the ambulance delivered me to the new ER. A trauma team greeted me, just like The Pitt. They rushed at me, asking questions and pushing tubes into my veins.
Wow. Now this was excellent service.
Maybe they’d be on top of things here.
Now where was Dr. Robbie?
Dr. Chin, looking like the head of the class in his round glasses, spoke calmly. It was going to be okay. One more test, and it would probably be fine.
The blood, he explained, was from a hematoma on the lining of my liver. Just a bunch of blood vessels.
I would go home after some tests.
The thing about hospitals is that they’re all rush, rush, rush, then wait, wait, wait.
Minutes blurred into hours.
At 2:30 a.m., I was in an MRI machine. Five minutes in, they pulled me out.
“Do you have any metal on?”
The technician peeked under my gown at my impressive lack of clothing.
Someone had failed to remove the sticky EKG pads from my chest.
Was I supposed to know that?
The test started over.
“Breathe in,” the robot voice commanded.
“Hold.”
Hold seemed to be the theme of the day.
An hour later, I was alone in my room. Maybe I could sleep before the doctors reviewed my results.
Two nurses, Alberto and Gianna, had other ideas.
How were they this cheerful in the middle of the night?
They checked my arms for a good vein because the one they had picked wasn’t producing. Alberto cracked jokes about my veins.
How could anyone be this jokey at this hour?
Please. I needed to sleep.
But Gianna still had questions: my alcohol consumption, mental health, and whether my home was a safe place.
It certainly seemed safer than being here.
She came back at 6 a.m. to scan my wristband and offer me a drink.
Everything was bright in the room, like a noon picnic on the Fourth of July.
Had the sun come up already?
I pulled the blanket over my face. On the other side of the curtain came the thwack of a mop, the crumpling of papers and plastic.
Why were they doing this now? Didn’t they care about sick people sleeping?
At last, quiet.
Gianna came back in. I asked why it was so bright.
She turned off the overhead lights.
Darkness, at last.
Hold on. Gianna wanted to introduce me to the day nurse.
I greeted Casey and drifted back to sleep.
At 8 a.m., the breakfast tray arrived, followed by the Nutrition Manager, who wanted to discuss my food orders for the day.
“I’m leaving.”
I didn’t need to order anything.
“Just in case,” she said.
“It’s my job.”
I accepted everything she offered for lunch and dinner. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be here anyway.
Casey came back to take my vitals. I asked when the doctors would make their rounds.
“Oh, probably this afternoon.”
This afternoon.
No, no, no.
I was supposed to be released after my tests. Dr. Chin had even said I could leave in the middle of the night if I wanted.
But I couldn’t stay there all day. I remembered my parents’ many hospital stays, and how doctors always seemed to arrive at the crack of dawn—conveniently before the adult children could show up and ask questions.
Who changed the schedule?
I settled in for a few more minutes of sleep when my phone buzzed.
The insurance company wanted to retrieve my car from the tow lot and take it to the inspection station. The tow lot charged by the day, and it was almost 24 hours since my accident. Talk about efficient!
I assured the representative my husband was there emptying it out. Now was a great time for nap!
Suddenly, a man parked a woman on a stretcher at the foot of my bed. Her legs were splayed open in the traditional yoga butterfly pose, with a giant ice pack on her crotch.
“Hi!” I waved.
She looked at me and moaned.
Oh no.
She kept moaning as they settled her onto the bed. I gathered she had just had surgery.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” the nurses soothed.
Then they started taking her vitals. They wanted to know if she had ever been depressed, or if she drank alcohol.
“When was the last time you drank?”
Wow. That’s direct.
“Valentine’s Day,” my roommate said.
They don’t give anyone a break here.
With every moan, my panic swelled.
This lady was really sick.
I needed to go home.
I couldn’t be here with all these sick people.
I was not sick.
Was I?
I felt fine.
Casey was busy getting my roommate settled. I asked if the doctors were on their way.
Oh no. They were tied up with three traumas.
They just couldn’t get up here.
My lunch tray arrived with a piece of rubber chicken.
I was now resigned to being there through eternity.
I wasn’t hungry, but I took a few bites because who knew if dinner would be even worse?
Chitchat floated outside my room. Someone announced my age and my name.
Was it?
Could it be?
A man in his thirties walked in. He said something obscure with a totally straight face.
I didn’t know this man, and I wasn’t going to pretend to understand him. The female doctors with him didn’t explain.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know you. Are you joking around?”
“Yes! Yes, I am!”
I had had little sleep and had run out of “nice” hours earlier.
“You’re not very funny.”
The attending doctors burst out laughing.
I realized I might not be a Karen, but perhaps a cranky old woman.
It was inevitable.
He got down to business.
A cyst on my liver had burst. Not a hematoma. The impact of the crash had broken the cyst wide open, but now I was fine to go.
Lift nothing heavy.
You don’t need to follow up.
The most welcome words of all:
“Yes, of course, you can fly to Florida!”
I am fine?
This is no big deal?
Another hour passed before I wished my roommate well and the hospital released me into my husband’s care.
I sprawled on the sofa, clicking on Dr. Robbie’s chaotic ER.
Then I took a two-hour nap.
I was grateful to be home.
The next day, I woke up feeling as if someone had shot me in the liver.
It was hard to breathe.
Hard to move.
I could not go to Florida.
I could not go anywhere.
Oh my. What an ordeal! Glad to hear you’ve healed.
Wow. catching up with your writing and stunned you went through this. Glad you are okay.