This past week I was in the emergency room but not in New York, rather, back home in Indiana. Not a big deal, I just stepped on a rusty nail. But it reminded me of an emergency room trip several years ago in New York City.
I've lived in the same neighborhood now for eight years. It is called Inwood and is predominatly inhabited by people from the Dominican Republic. But up until that time, I'd never noticed whether or not there was a hospital in the area.
One afternoon I was just getting to go to sleep in preparation for another graveyard shift. And it hit me. I knew what it was immediately--kidney stone. I'd had several before though this was my first one in New York. I decided to try tough it out. I'd passed a couple before on my own and mine have tended to be small and while extremely painful, I've been able to pass them quickly.
So I groaned and threw up from the pain but after about two hours, the pain passed and I passed out. Just before midnight, I got up to go to work. Just as I was getting out of the shower, it hit me again. Only this time it really hit me and I said to myself that I was not doing this again. So I called 911.
The paramedics came and seemed skeptical that there was anything wrong with me but they put me in the ambulance and asked me where I wanted to go. I didn't know that I had a choice but I told them I didn't care, just somewhere close.
They took me to a hospital which it turned out, was walking distance from my apartment. I went in and registered. The nurse at the counter where I registered was gruff and mean, especially when she found out I didn't have insurance. But honestly, I didn't care. By then, I was hurting so bad. I bee-lined for the toilet as the pain was causing me to vomit again.
I came out and took a seat. There were probably a dozen people in the room. And I realized that I was the only English speaker in the room. The television was blaring a Spanish telenovela, a melodramatic soap opera. Everyone else seemed to be interested. I didn't care. I just wanted the pain down there to stop.
After about twenty minutes, the nurse at the front desk called the security guard over. She told him to switch the channel on the television to an English speaking channel. She said it was a rule that if there was an English speaking person in the waiting room, the television had to be on an English speaking channel. The security guard did it and told the crowd the rule in Spanish (which I totally understood) and they all looked at me and I just went and threw up. Now, it was going to be my fault that they were having to wait in the emergency room and watching a Jerry Springer rerun in English. I was expecting to be assaulted when I came out but before long I was called into a room.
The doctor who examined me was from North Carolina. He had come to New York for med school and had met his new wife there. He wanted to go back and she wanted to stay. He was very nice and when the first pain killer he gave me didn't do a thing, he gave me a shot of demerol. And I think I told him I loved him when it took effect. He asked me if I had insurance and when I told him that I didn't, he told me when I left to just leave and say nothing, which I did and never heard anything from anyone.
And by daybreak, I was walking home.
1 comment:
Sounds like an interesting experience
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