This rainy Monday night finds me looking out over the Emory Campus from the window of my hospital room. It’s the first time I’ve felt somewhat human all day. I’ve ben mysteriously sick for a week now. I haven’t slept hardly at all. In fact, I’ve been awake for the past 29 hours straight and I see no signs of me being able to sleep. Even if a doctor is running tests to rule out Pulmonary Edema and Congestive Heart Failure… sitting around waiting for the results still doesn’t leave the happiest thoughts running around in a boy’s head.
However, give those short details (I’ll go into the full story later)… there was one moment today that made me feel better and incredibly sad at the same time.
After finally getting my private room, I was sent down to Radiology for a CAT Scan. Jordan walked down with me and we were lead into a small waiting room. Another woman was sitting in the room already. She was ancient and brittle, kind of like a shell of a person sitting in a wheelchair with two blankets wrapped around her.
The Tech came into the room and asked who was next. I told the tech the woman was first. She wheeled her into the room and the door closes. Inside I can here her being loaded onto the table and the CAT Scan machine warming up. Then, I hear a robotic voice instruct the woman to “Breath In.” “Hold Your Breath.” “Breath.” It repeats the instructions twice. I hear the tech say “OK… Mrs. Jones you’re all ready.”
“Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Jones. Wake up for me Mrs. Jones.”
She calls for someone in another room… they keep trying to get her to respond. The intercom call goes out. Within seconds people are flying in from all over. A crash-cart is hurriedly pushed into the room. I already know what’s happening on the other side of the 1-way glass. Mrs. Jones is dead.
Then, one of the helpers, a boy with a permanent wide gap-toothed smile that would lead one to believe he’s a little slow… comes out and says sheepishly, “Oh… don’t worry… that won’t happen to you.” I couldn’t help but to laugh at the statement. There wasn’t any other response I was capable of.
A female chaplain in a bad pants/shirt/vest combo walks into the scene with a notepad getting the woman’s name. People talk about not wanting to be the one to tell the family… almost in a game of “not it” style.
How sad and pathetic of an end is this? You’re in this colorless, cold, metalic, and mechanical environtment… being examined like a rat.. wearing a rag that has an all-over print of “Hospital Property” on it. You die with not a single familiar or desirable thing around you… completely alone… and the last words you hear are a robot telling you to hold your breath.
I realized at that point, that no matter how scared shitless I was of all the possibilities of my own prognosis, I sure as hell wasn’t as bad off as that woman.
Here’s to hoping for a false alarm from a stubborn sinus infection or even toxic damage to my respiratory system cause by my neighbors sealing their driveway.
At least I made it past the CAT Scan.
