I wander around inside the hospital, looking for the ER. I realize that I must not be dying, not quickly, anyway, and some of the symptoms ease. I finally find my way to the reception area for the ER, in the basement. I think it is the basement. A woman is waiting for her child's shoulder to be fixed after a dislocation. She is not allowed to be with the child while this procedure is taking place. She looks pale and worried, like a caged tiger.
I wait patiently, chest screaming, while the woman at reception talks on the phone to someone about dinner arrangements. It is almost dinner time. I'm sad about this, because I know they won't let me eat even if I'm not dying. I've been in hospitals before.
The receptionist finally hangs up and looks expectantly at me. I lean in and whisper, "I'm having chest pains. I'm sorry." And I wonder why I feel like apologizing.
I'm swept away quickly from that point. I'm put in a bay in the ER proper. I'm out of my yoga clothes and into a johnny. I'm allowed to keep on my black batgirl panties with the pink batgirl symbol on front. I'm glad about this for a number of reasons, not least of which is that these panties are fierce.
A beautiful young nurse comes in in blue scrubs. She has thick brown hair in waves all around her face. She looks for a vein, finds one, and stabs it. I bleed everywhere, onto the sheets, onto my johnnie, onto the floor. She takes some vials of blood. She asks what it's like to be a yoga teacher. She asks me where she should go for classes because she's been told she shouldn't do yoga when she's trying to get pregnant. She leaves with the vials of blood and returns with Clorox bleach wipes to clean my blood off the floor.
The woman in the bay next to me is also having chest pains. She doesn't speak much English. She was in earlier in the day, but she escaped. They have a bored-looking guard posted outside her bay. I can see him through a small opening in the curtain that is supposed to offer me privacy. He stares at his cell phone.
An older black woman comes in. She's wearing a tribal print shirt and beads. Her hair is short. She wants to tell me they have a room ready for me. That I have to stay over night. She wants to ask me about a phone plan. The nurse is back, though, and she's about to give me morphine. I tell her I don't want morphine. She says it's standard procedure for chest pain. I tell her that I don't want it but that if I have to have it, I need a low dose. She says it's the standard dose, and it's pretty low. I push back. She says she'll give it to me slow and steady.
The phone plan woman continues on about the phone plan. The morphine makes me feel like my legs are on fire. I yell for the pretty yoga nurse to stop. The phone plan woman says she can come back later and leaves. I keep yelling for the morphine to stop. The nurse tells me that I'm the only person she's ever met that doesn't like morphine. She continues to administer it.
The morphine finally stops making my legs feel like they are on fire. My chest and arm still hurt. My head feels separate from my body. And periodically, for the rest of my stay, scenes play out twice. I'm guessing that's from the morphine, but maybe it's from the anxiety. Deja vu sounds so romantic when you read about it, but in reality, replaying scenes of watching yourself in a hospital is a poor use of a drug trip, I think.
Electrodes are hooked up to me. The pretty young nurses have to lift my bare breasts to put electrodes there. This is uncomfortable, and I look down at my chest, embarrassed at the heft and weight of these things.
A young male doctor with startlingly blue eyes comes in and says some things. A beautiful resident who looks like she should be in a movie about beautiful young doctors and their romantic lives says some things, too. They look at my heart with an ultrasound. They check my aorta, too. There's some concern. They say I have to stay overnight for observation. They ask me about yoga. They leave.
A man comes in and unhooks the electrodes and wheels me to x-ray. Everyone watches as I'm wheeled past. A funeral procession or a coronation for royalty. A parade of some sort. I'm taken back into the ER bay to wait for my room. The woman in the bay next to me is being admonished for bolting earlier. She promises she won't leave this time, but she's feisty, and I love her. A man comes in to check on me. I ask him when I can eat. I've been doing yoga all day and I'm hungry and thirsty. He offers ice chips. They are the best ice chips in the world. I remember them from when I was birthing children. Like heavenly wine.
I get taken to my room, after some time. I'm told on the way that it's in the new building. It looks like a posh hotel room, with unexpected equipment hooked up on the walls. The man who wheels me in shows me how to control things. He dims the lights. I turn the TV on. It's hockey. I watch the players gliding back and forth, back and forth.
A nurse comes in to introduce herself and I love her immediately. She checks my vital signs. She brings me a sandwich. She asks me about my kids. She tells me to never take the bus to the ER again. Next time, take an ambulance, OK? She has twins, too. Hers are grown. She tells me she'll be keeping an eye on me until midnight. I feel safe and warm. I tell her not to let anyone give me any more morphine. In fact, I tell every person who walks in my room not to give me morphine for the rest of my stay. They all think it's hilarious.
I fall asleep watching hockey. I wake up and change the channel to CNN. They are making wild speculation about the missing Malaysian plane. Aliens. Tiny black holes. The Bermuda Triangle. I wonder if they are for real or if this is the morphine. I turn off the TV and go to sleep.
I have several visitors in the night. The first is a middle-aged man who says something about me being a yoga teacher. I tell him not to give me morphine. He says he loves yoga. He goes there for the chicks. I tell him he's not the only one. He gives me albuterol. I ask him why. He says he doesn't know. He stands there while I breathe and tells me more about chicks and girlfriends and I think he might be hitting on me but that can't possibly be. He leaves. I go back to sleep.
The next visitor looks like Steve-O. He says he's going to take blood. He's super nice and has the thickest Boston accent in the world. He has a giant, deep scar from his elbow to his wrist on his left arm. He's gentle. He says he'll try to let me sleep as long as he can but that he has to take more blood in a few hours. He leaves. I go back to sleep.
I wake up when a nurse shines a flashlight in my face. She apologizes and leaves.
I'm woken again by Steve-O. He's interested in yoga, too. I say something about it helping to heal the lingering effects of trauma. I guess I'm looking at his scar. He tells me the scar is a "gift from the Jamaicaway." I tell him I hate that road. He says after his accident, he came to in the ER and heard the docs saying that they were going to try to save the arm. I'm tired. I say, "Well, chicks love scars." I feel stupid. I think I might have been hitting on him. He laughs and leaves. I go back to sleep.
A very perky young blonde nurse wakes me next. Sunlight is coming in through the windows. She says we're waiting for my stress test. I tell her I'm going back to sleep, then. I've never slept this late before, not since the kids were born. I look at a clock. It's 7:30.
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