Don’t Worry, BabyOctober 19, 2010 at 9:54 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
I was thinking recently that Detroit and I needed to have “our song.”
We do want to get married, but there are obstacles, not the least of which is her current husband. As soon as we can take care of that–
As soon as we can, I want to marry her. God–pathetic little needy me. I do need her.
So I sent her a short list of some songs, some ideas I had. Then she sent back her suggestion, and it was one that I had previously turned her on to.
“Born For Me,” by Paul Westerberg. Although the version we most often listen to is one on a tribute album by UnKevin and Madison–Madison being his six year old daughter. It’s beautiful, I think. And sweet.
But in the last twenty-four hours I’ve had a different song in my head, or at least a few lines from it. I’m not sure what album it was from but I remember that I had it on vinyl. It was a Beach Boys record, and the song I remember now is “Don’t Worry, Baby.”
It has a soothing melody.
Detroit is in the hospital. Again. I don’t believe I wrote about the first time, and I’m not sure why. Let’s go with “busy.”
A few weeks ago, she had stomach craps, then vomiting. Everything came back up. We thought–or I thought–that it might just be the flu, or food poisoning. However, with food poisoning, once you throw up, although you are still sick you do feel remarkably better…usually.
Hers was not the case. Of course we waited until about 11pm that night to go the hospital, which she blames on me. Fine. But from now on–
She went in, they did a CAT scan, they admitted her. She was in from Tuesday night until Saturday afternoon. They never really explained–and maybe they didn’t know–if it was an intestinal blockage, an infection, or a combination thereof, or something else entirely.
My own theory is that she got some kind of virus that had been going around, and because of her Crohn’s disease, it exacerbated, she got an infection in her intestines, and that caused it to swell up, causing the blockage. The fact that the antibiotics they put her on cleared it up seems to back up my theory. I’m not a doctor, but I do play one on TV.
The other night before I got home, she started to feel sick. Hard cramping, and by the time I got home she started vomiting. This is not good. We took her to the hospital.
Of course, taking her is one thing. Getting her seen is quite another. We left the house about 830, so we’re at the hospital about a quarter till–it’s not far. Okay, this is the ER. First, she checks in–whatever that entails. I went to park and by the time I came in, her and her mom were sitting in the waiting room.
I was always under the impression that the waiting room of the ER was for people that weren’t sick waiting for people that were being seen. She was obviously in pain, and occasionally hacking into a plastic vomit bag they had conveniently given her.
Presently they called her name, and we all walked up. But this wasn’t to go in. No, the receptionist or whatever the hell she is just had her sign a form, and then put a wristband on her. We all sat down.
Detroit sat whimpering in pain, trying to lean back and close her eyes, but she kept doubling over from the cramping. When she threw up, she held my hand and squeezed.
Finally they called her name again–the triage nurse. It’s past 930, we’ve been here almost an hour–this is the emergency room, isn’t it? She goes in the small room with the triage nurse, and comes back out about 7 or 8 minutes later. We wait.
We continue to wait.
She’s in pain, trying to keep quiet, sitting next to me. Since we’ve been there, she’s thrown up into her little plastic bag about three times. Each time, someone else in the waiting room would get up and leave. I don’t know where they went.
I got up, though, and went to the front desk. Two chunky-looking orderly/nurse/whatever (and that’s something that bugs me about hospitals–everyone wearing scrubs, how the hell do you know who is who? Is the young guy and orderly, or a Doogie-Howser-like genius doctor? Is the chick shaving you a nurse, an orderly, or just another patient with a fetish? I just don’t know whom I am addressing and whether or not I should tip–
Maybe people perceive me to be large and intimidating–and that has come in handy on occasion–but I’m in no mood to be tazered by security right now. I put on my friendly face–which even under the best of circumstances can be disconcerting–and approach the desk. “Hi!”
Chunky #1 seemed taken aback. She said, “Can I help you?”
I went with the cheerful and bright, but slightly naive approach. They don’t know what I know. “Well I was just wondering–we’ve been here for quite a while, and my fiance is obviously in pain. And vomiting. Throwing up in the waiting room. And no one has told us anything–”
Chunky #2 at her keyboard said, “And her name?”
I told her and she looked it up. Meanwhile, Chunky #1 tried to maintain some level of control. It’s important, according to her training, to diffuse these situations and not let them spiral out of control. You also want to maintain an air of authority. Either that or call over the security team, who was sitting 20 feet away in their office, itching to take down a buckin’ bronc.
Chunky #1 said, “I am sorry about your wait. We are calling people up in order, as soon as there is room. It will be soon, I promise.” She said all this in a stern but begrudgingly polite tone.
“Okay. That’s good. No one had given us any indication before, you see?” And by “no one,” I meant her pathetic, non-communicating ass. Don’t just point and grunt towards the waiting room, bitch. Tell us something.
“Fuck off over there.”
I mean, tell us something comforting.
“Fuck off over there, please. It’ll be a few minutes.”
…I suppose that’s better.
I sat back down. Now maybe it was just a coincidence, and maybe I should have just waited a little longer. But in less than three minutes after I conversed with the lovely Chunky ladies, Chunky #1 called Detroit’s name and led us through to the ER proper.
A gruff linebacker-type orderly came in and gave her a gown to put on, then he left. He came back in a few minutes and stabbed her with a plastic spork to get her IV started and draw some blood. Detroit winced in pain at first, but it escalated to a quiet yelp as she levitated off the gurney. Conan the orderly scoffed and said, “Pussy.”
Eventually some normal humans came in and took care of her. I dozed off and on in the chair. The nurse–who looked like all the nurses on TV shows–said they wanted to do a CAT scan. She had one the last time she was in, so she knew the drill. It was now about midnight. Detroit told me to go home, and take her mom with. If they let her out, she’ll call.
We went home.
As we said goodbye, Detroit repeated to me what she had said to me earlier. Apparently I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my emotions right on top of my face. She said, “Don’t worry, baby.” Everything will turn out all right–
Or maybe that’s just the line from the song. I said, “I will if if I want to.”
Again she said it, holding my hand when I left, “Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to be okay.”
I hope so. This almost more than I can take right now. I don’t even want to talk about all the bizarre thoughts I’ve been having. It’s too much, I tell ya–Too much. I can’t spend this much time in head.