Walking through the sliding glass door and past all the bleeding and broken patients in the waiting area, I took my seat in the nurse’s station. The sphygmomanometer cuff and stethoscope made an appearance and I instinctively started to roll up my sleeve.
“Don’t. It’s easier with your sleeve down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Which one of us does this for a living, Matthew?”
“Touche.”
Then the nurse proceeded to take my blood pressure. Not once. Not twice. But THREE times, each time, furrowing her brow in frustration.
“There a problem?”
No answer. After jotting a number down, she instructed me to take my seat in the waiting area once again. Eventually, I was called over to the insurance area where I sadly stated that I in fact, like most of America, had no coverage. This earned a sympathetic smile and a form telling me how to set up payment plans for hospital care. The form was written in Spanish. I sighed and handed it back to her in exchange for an English version. Then, once again I re-entered the waiting area to sit amongst the mass of bleeding, broken and non-anglophonic humanity.
In my boredom I picked up a newspaper, once again written entriely in Spanish. Putting down La Voce, I instead opted to go with La Tribuna, because I respect their journalistic integrity more. After a few moments of trying to assimilate myself into the culture around me by pretending to read the Spanish paper, I spied a copy of Modern Business and snatched it up before anyone else could. I must admit, dressed in my suit and reading a business mag, I might have looked like quite the captain of industry if not for my unshaven face, taped up glasses and gamey musk.
As I leafed through the articles, I noticed a large section detailing the rise of the so called “blog-o-sphere” (An annoyingly infuriating buzzword if I’ve ever heard one) In the article, it listed detailed descriptions of how to get your blog noticed and how to turn your inane little thoughts into cold, hard cash. I was intrigued. I was just about to delve into the article when I noticed a commotion at the front desk. Like a man passing a fiery train wreck, I had to watch.
There she stood, a middle aged, bitter looking woman, wearing “mom jeans” (The kind that Bobby’s mom, Mrs. Generic on “Bobby’s World” might wear) a winter coat and a scowl a mile long. Beside her stood her equally pretentious daughter; hand clutched to her head in a display of overacting that would have made even the most seasoned Greenwich veteran sick.
“Excuse me, miss. But my daughter has a terrible headache. And I’m in a bit of a hurry. Would it be possible to-?”
The nurse tried to cut her off before she made a huge ass out of herself.
“Miss, if you’ll just have a seat, we’ll be with you in a moment.”
The woman huffed and turned to face the waiting room full of patients, which included;
The man with a gash in his head. (Ole’ Penishead, if you’ll remember from the last post.)
A man clutching in a blood paper towel what could only be a human finger.
A small girl with a broken leg.
Another small girl with an arm that was either fractured or broken, judging by the ginger way she was holding it.
A wheelchair bound elderly man with a broken foot.
And myself, a possible victim of a heart attack.
Nonplussed, the woman turned back to the nurse and leaned in to mumble something so that the rest of us wouldn’t hear. Finally, it would seem, the had dam broken. The nurse, who had probably spent the better part of the morning listening to the legitimate concerns of people actually in need of medical attention, could take no more.
The nurse raised her tone to one that was capable of being heard throughout the entire waiting area.
“Miss, this isn’t a night club. Offering me money won’t get you bumped up the list. So, please, have a seat and we’ll get to you as soon as possible.”
The woman sputtered, her face turning red, the kind of blush that can only be brought on by the sting of public embarrassment. Still she refused to yield.
“But, my daughter-“
The nurse stood up, a large black woman who easily dwarfed the skinny W.A.S.P and her daughter. A smile crossed my face. Clearly, there was some doin’s a’escalatin’! In layman’s terms, some shit was about to go down. The massive nurse loomed over the narrow-behinded waif with poorly restained murder in her eyes.
“YOUR DAUGHTER… Will have to wait. So, please… Take… A… Seat.”
The woman shrank back, ashamed and probably in fear for her life. She turned quickly and immediately did as she was told and took a seat…
Right next to me.
At which point, I proceeded to laugh in her face.
This woman, obviously came from money. She probably had a better car than the nurse. She most certainly had a better house. She was, without a doubt, in a higher income bracket the the nurse. But at that moment in time, she had been Pwn'd, purely and simply. And what's more, her humiliation had taken place in a room full of migrant workers and the walking wounded (Except for the old man and the young girl with broken legs), people she deemed herself better than.
If this was a heart attack, then I could die happy knowing that the bitch had been taken down a peg. I'd have little time to gloat, however, as the nurse stood up once again and called my name. With a smirk at the disgraced soccer mom, I stood up and made my way once more into the breach, stopping only to smile and flash a hearty thumbs up to my new hero; A simple nurse who had chosen to slap a cocky bitch to the ground.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Heart Attack-Ack-Ack-Ack!!!(Or "I Oughtta Know by Now")
I was certain it was a heart attack.
It was Sunday. My girl and I had just settled down to our dinner, a plate of fried calamari and a buffalo chicken pizza. I remember dabbing a little bleu cheese dressing onto my pizza and popping a salty piece of breaded seafood into my mouth. Life seemed simple, almost idyllic. Laura, my girlfriend, sat rocking our six month old, Anneliesse in her green and blue baby seat as the countdown for the TNA Wrestling Pay Per View was only minutes from airing. We had spent most of the day looking online at a property in cozy Bloomsburg, PA. If all went according to plan, we’d be able to move in by the spring. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go according to plan.
The first bolt of pain hit me in the chest like a shot. I grimaced and did my best to hide the pain. Alas, I’m no Laurence Olivier. With a concerned look on her face, Laura looked up from her own cheese-slathered slice of pizza. “Are you ok?” my girlfriend asked me. I did my best to nod my head and ignore the pain. I got up and stumbled into the kitchen hoping to walk off the pain. Then another wave of stabbing pain washed over my chest. I clutched my chest, eliciting a cry of distress from the woman sitting on the couch. Then, like the magic, the pain subsided once again. My stomach felt out of sorts and a sheen of cold sweat coated my face and chest.
“I think… I think I just had a heart attack.” I stammered.
“Oh my God! Do you want to go to the hospital?”
Then my pay per view flickered to life on my TV screen. Suddenly the issue of my imploding heart seemed little and far away. Ever in control of my priorities, I sat down and watched in delight as grown men in spandex tossed each other around for my amusement.
“I really think you should go to the hospital.”
“Yeah… After the pay per view….”
“You could die.”
“Yeah, exactly. And then I’d never know who won the title.”
I didn’t go to the hospital that night. I didn’t even go to the hospital the next morning. But as the day dragged on, my conscience and own personal neurosis fed on me like a fat chick at a buffet. I worked the end of my shift and called the Hospital.
“Danbury Hospital, how may I help you?”
“Hi. I think I may have suffered a heart attack last night.”
“That’s probably something you should have gone in for.”
“Yeah.”
“::Sigh:: One moment, I’ll transfer you to the nurse’s station.”
After a moment of listening to a gratuitous advertisement for the very hospital I was calling, a Jamaican woman picked up the phone.
“Nurse’s station, Danbury Hospital… How may I help you?”
“Hi. I think I may have suffered a mild heart attack last night. I feel a little sweaty and my chest is-“
The woman interrupted me.
“You should have come in last night!”
“Yeah…. You’re probably right…”
“One second, I’ll transfer you to the Emergency Room.”
Once again I was reminded of the glory of Danbury Hospital via the magic of pre-recorded advertisement. Another minute passed before I was patched in to the nurse that I had originally talked to.
“Danbury Hospital, how may I help you?”
“Uh, hi. I talked to you before. I think I had a mild heart attack last night and I was wondering-“
“Hold on, I’ll transfer you to the Nurse’s Station.”
Not wanting another heart attack to strike while playing phone tag, I decided against the transfer.
“Oh, that’s alright. I’ll just stop in after work.”
“Good idea, sir.”
Probably the only one I’ve had in some time. After making a few calls to the necessary people, I jumped in my rusted out 87’ Chevy Celebrity and rode through the midday fog and rain to the Emergency Room. Surprisingly, heart attacks precedence in the ER, so I was called in immediately. As I walked into the Triage Room to get my blood pressure taken, I passed a child with a broken arm, a man missing a finger and another with a large gash on the top of his bald head. I stifled a giggle, knowing that the man’s scar would make him look like a walking penis when it had healed.
And then I walked out of the waiting area and into the unknown.
It was Sunday. My girl and I had just settled down to our dinner, a plate of fried calamari and a buffalo chicken pizza. I remember dabbing a little bleu cheese dressing onto my pizza and popping a salty piece of breaded seafood into my mouth. Life seemed simple, almost idyllic. Laura, my girlfriend, sat rocking our six month old, Anneliesse in her green and blue baby seat as the countdown for the TNA Wrestling Pay Per View was only minutes from airing. We had spent most of the day looking online at a property in cozy Bloomsburg, PA. If all went according to plan, we’d be able to move in by the spring. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go according to plan.
The first bolt of pain hit me in the chest like a shot. I grimaced and did my best to hide the pain. Alas, I’m no Laurence Olivier. With a concerned look on her face, Laura looked up from her own cheese-slathered slice of pizza. “Are you ok?” my girlfriend asked me. I did my best to nod my head and ignore the pain. I got up and stumbled into the kitchen hoping to walk off the pain. Then another wave of stabbing pain washed over my chest. I clutched my chest, eliciting a cry of distress from the woman sitting on the couch. Then, like the magic, the pain subsided once again. My stomach felt out of sorts and a sheen of cold sweat coated my face and chest.
“I think… I think I just had a heart attack.” I stammered.
“Oh my God! Do you want to go to the hospital?”
Then my pay per view flickered to life on my TV screen. Suddenly the issue of my imploding heart seemed little and far away. Ever in control of my priorities, I sat down and watched in delight as grown men in spandex tossed each other around for my amusement.
“I really think you should go to the hospital.”
“Yeah… After the pay per view….”
“You could die.”
“Yeah, exactly. And then I’d never know who won the title.”
I didn’t go to the hospital that night. I didn’t even go to the hospital the next morning. But as the day dragged on, my conscience and own personal neurosis fed on me like a fat chick at a buffet. I worked the end of my shift and called the Hospital.
“Danbury Hospital, how may I help you?”
“Hi. I think I may have suffered a heart attack last night.”
“That’s probably something you should have gone in for.”
“Yeah.”
“::Sigh:: One moment, I’ll transfer you to the nurse’s station.”
After a moment of listening to a gratuitous advertisement for the very hospital I was calling, a Jamaican woman picked up the phone.
“Nurse’s station, Danbury Hospital… How may I help you?”
“Hi. I think I may have suffered a mild heart attack last night. I feel a little sweaty and my chest is-“
The woman interrupted me.
“You should have come in last night!”
“Yeah…. You’re probably right…”
“One second, I’ll transfer you to the Emergency Room.”
Once again I was reminded of the glory of Danbury Hospital via the magic of pre-recorded advertisement. Another minute passed before I was patched in to the nurse that I had originally talked to.
“Danbury Hospital, how may I help you?”
“Uh, hi. I talked to you before. I think I had a mild heart attack last night and I was wondering-“
“Hold on, I’ll transfer you to the Nurse’s Station.”
Not wanting another heart attack to strike while playing phone tag, I decided against the transfer.
“Oh, that’s alright. I’ll just stop in after work.”
“Good idea, sir.”
Probably the only one I’ve had in some time. After making a few calls to the necessary people, I jumped in my rusted out 87’ Chevy Celebrity and rode through the midday fog and rain to the Emergency Room. Surprisingly, heart attacks precedence in the ER, so I was called in immediately. As I walked into the Triage Room to get my blood pressure taken, I passed a child with a broken arm, a man missing a finger and another with a large gash on the top of his bald head. I stifled a giggle, knowing that the man’s scar would make him look like a walking penis when it had healed.
And then I walked out of the waiting area and into the unknown.
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