From: rickg@netcom.com (Rick Gordon)
Subject: Peevetown General Hospital: Take 2
Followup-To: alt.peeves
Organization: Netcom - SF Bay, Cal Northifornia
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 1992 23:30:33 GMT


The Emergency Room around midnight of a Saturday in midsummer is one
of the most relentlessly educational places you can find, with new
insight into the rendability of human flesh available at every tick
of the clock.  A Sunday evening in November, the time chosen for me,
is statistically much more likely to be boring.  And so it was.

We arrived around 8PM and walked right up to the main desk to register
my complaint.  Nobody in line ahead of me, no other non-staff humans
in the whole place, as far as I could see.  Mrs. Gordon addressed the
woman behind the desk and pared the reason for our visit to its
essence: "I brought my husband in here because he can't breathe," she
said.  I looked at the woman with a self-deprecating shyness which I
hoped would imply at least the possibility of some hyperbole in my
wife's diagnosis ("I am breathing, after all, as you can see," is
what I intended to convey).  "We called," summarised Mrs. Gordon.

After signing some small number of forms (which would no doubt leave
the hospital legally innocent in the event one of its employees
blundered spectacularly into the headlines to my detriment), I was
shown to an examination room and given a flimsy nightshirt to put on.
The ER attending physician came in soon after, clipboard in hand, to
begin the investigation.  After I had recounted the facts in the case
he decided a little inhalation therapy was in the cards for me that
night.  "Just to be safe," he said, "we're going to keep you busy
here for a little while."  At that moment a distant thunderclap could
be heard, echoing away to gloomy portent only.

Next I was visited by the tech who takes blood samples.  He had a little
cart with all manner of paraphernalia inside.  On top of the cart was a
translucent plastic box about the size of a loaf of bread, within which
rested his Instruments of sanguinary extraction.  A piece of masking
tape at the front of the box had the legend "JESUS" marked in blue ink.
I looked at his nametag: a match.

"So, do you want to give me some blood for the lab?"  I would have thought
in unnecessary to include the ultimate destination of my contribution, but
a look into that expressionless face convinced me that his supervisor had
stressed to him the importance of separating any personal interest of his
own from the task at hand.  "Sure," I said amiably, and offered him my
forearm.  He wrapped the upper part with a tight rubber tube, thumped on
candidate veins with his fingers while taking aim with his tiny lance.
I gave my blood to Jesus that night and never looked back.

The inhalation therapist arrived with a satchel of hoses, mouthpieces,
and drugs.  He connected one hose to an oxygen line, snaked it through
some plumbing in his bag, and attached the other end to my mouth.
"Breathe deeply and evenly, this'll help relax your throat," he said.
Mixed with the oxygen, he explained, was some chemical which encouraged
blood flow, which could be monitored by the springloaded cap he then
placed over my right index finger.  As I inhaled this medicinal air
he asked some of the same questions the ER doc had asked, although he
did phrase most of his inquiries so that they could be answered without
excessive verbiage.  It's hard to be eloquent with a plastic hose
fitting in your mouth, after all.

After a few minutes of this, he asked, "Could you give me a good strong
cough now?"  Being the Subject of this investigation I complied as best
I could, offering up a phlegmish obbligato with enthusiasm.

"Oh, Christ, not again," I thought but could not say, as my throat closed
off the only passage to my lungs in a seamless grip.  I made pointing
gestures at my mouth while shaking my head from side to side.  The
inhalation therapist understood, of course, and began rummaging in his
bag for something.  He called out the door for something, advised me to
relax.  I did my best, but I couldn't help feeling instantly disheartened
as the seconds ran away.

Next: Spending the night in the House of Pain.

-- 
Rick Gordon      | "She Broke My Heart So I Busted Her Jaw" 
rickg@netcom.com |   --- One of those country songs you never hear anymore
Newsgroups: alt.peeves