The Tearing of the Gown
Last night around 9:00 there was a loud crash in the kitchen. I assumed it was our cat but came out to check anyway, just to be sure. From the hallway it looked like a chair had turned over. Then I could make out Jennifer's body. I ran to her, panicked. It took about 5 minutes to get her lucid, the whole time wondering if I should call an ambulance. My other housemate explained that she's been doing this for the past week; that the paramedics would do nothing but bill us an arm and a leg if I called. That route had already been explored. So we carried her to bed.
An hour later the same thing happened, only this time it was much louder, and she was on the bathroom floor flopping like a fish. At first she thought she was in New York; then she was calling for a woman, Charlene, that neither of us knew. Then she thought she was in her apartment on Union Street, only she hasn't lived there for close to fourteen years. Finally she asked about her dead cat, Daphney. Her legs kept kicking and I could feel a bump on her head. Worried that she might have suffered a concussion, I took her to the ER.
I've heard horror stories about St. Francis but when we walked in, everything seemed clean, and, better yet, there was nobody in the lobby. This was a good sign. I spent fifteen minutes with the damn soda machine, losing two bucks in the process with no Snapple to show for it. This drove me insane. Then we were brought to the back. There was a woman screaming as loud as anyone I've ever heard in the next room. We were sure she was having a baby. Then she began cursing, demanding her one phone call, only to be explained that this wasn't jail. She screamed for her three children, her dead parents, and then wanted to be released. She yelled that she wasn't black, just mulatto. The hospital staff, cynical and cuntish already, had no sympathy and laughed at her plight. I felt bad for everyone involved. The problem was, this woman didn't shut up, and Jennifer and I could barely hear ourselves over the commotion, let alone describe what happened to the nurse. It was like we were in a Denis Johnson story, only there was nothing beautiful about the suffering.
Finally the doctor came in. After a hard line of questioning, he finally gave her a shot for the pain (she had smacked her body four separate times that day and was pretty banged up) and then sent us on our way, not before reminding us that inner city hospitals are the worst places for solving real health problems, as least the ones that don't involve heart attacks or gunshot wounds.
I was in bed by 4:00 am but couldn't sleep much the rest of the way.
Here I am at work now, knowing damn well that she can't stand up without having another one, that she can't even go to the bathroom without something happening, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. You hear the phrase 'it is what it is' tossed about, and it's a bad cliché, not to mention terribly annoying, only in this situation, it fits. You want to think that people can recover from tragedy - I mean what else are you supposed to believe? - but there comes a time when the writing is on the wall.
This story isn't gonna end well.
An hour later the same thing happened, only this time it was much louder, and she was on the bathroom floor flopping like a fish. At first she thought she was in New York; then she was calling for a woman, Charlene, that neither of us knew. Then she thought she was in her apartment on Union Street, only she hasn't lived there for close to fourteen years. Finally she asked about her dead cat, Daphney. Her legs kept kicking and I could feel a bump on her head. Worried that she might have suffered a concussion, I took her to the ER.
I've heard horror stories about St. Francis but when we walked in, everything seemed clean, and, better yet, there was nobody in the lobby. This was a good sign. I spent fifteen minutes with the damn soda machine, losing two bucks in the process with no Snapple to show for it. This drove me insane. Then we were brought to the back. There was a woman screaming as loud as anyone I've ever heard in the next room. We were sure she was having a baby. Then she began cursing, demanding her one phone call, only to be explained that this wasn't jail. She screamed for her three children, her dead parents, and then wanted to be released. She yelled that she wasn't black, just mulatto. The hospital staff, cynical and cuntish already, had no sympathy and laughed at her plight. I felt bad for everyone involved. The problem was, this woman didn't shut up, and Jennifer and I could barely hear ourselves over the commotion, let alone describe what happened to the nurse. It was like we were in a Denis Johnson story, only there was nothing beautiful about the suffering.
Finally the doctor came in. After a hard line of questioning, he finally gave her a shot for the pain (she had smacked her body four separate times that day and was pretty banged up) and then sent us on our way, not before reminding us that inner city hospitals are the worst places for solving real health problems, as least the ones that don't involve heart attacks or gunshot wounds.
I was in bed by 4:00 am but couldn't sleep much the rest of the way.
Here I am at work now, knowing damn well that she can't stand up without having another one, that she can't even go to the bathroom without something happening, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. You hear the phrase 'it is what it is' tossed about, and it's a bad cliché, not to mention terribly annoying, only in this situation, it fits. You want to think that people can recover from tragedy - I mean what else are you supposed to believe? - but there comes a time when the writing is on the wall.
This story isn't gonna end well.
posted by Rob Simons at 1:14 PM
1 Comments:
I'm concerned about this-- is she on any type of anti-convulsant? Or are her convulsions some underlying secondary symptom to a brain tumor or kidney failure?
At the very least she should be on some phenobarbitol or dilantin or gabapentin-- something for her obvious grand mals (and I say this after only having access what you wrote and having completed only a small portion of my much greater future medical training so far, and my advice should not replace that of a licenced and qualified medical professional)-- whether she's having them because she's epileptic or because they're secondary to a disease process. And if they've been increasing in frequency and severity for a week now despite already being on these medications, then a visit to the PCD is in order to increase the dose.
I hope it all ends well for all parties involved, Rob.
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