So, OK, you all might be in sweet, sweet love with UPS, but I bet you don’t like food poisoning, do you?
Neither does my fiancé, Jeff. Unfortunately, it likes him. We spent a lovely Sunday morning in the emergency wing of New York Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn. Jeff got to wear a cute little housedress and got hooked up to an IV. Who knew pork fried rice could do you so wrong?
As I’ve previously mentioned, I am a terrible sick person (note: not a terrible, sick person. A poor sufferer of illness), and am convinced that sickness is a sign of personal failure and weakness. I thought that this applied only to my own sickness, but I was unpleasantly surprised to find that I practice tough love when woken up at 7:00 on a Sunday:
Jeff: Baby, I think we need to go to the hospital.
Me (still sleeping): Unnnnnhhhhhhhh?
Jeff: I haven’t slept at all, I’ve been puking all night and my stomach really hurts.
Me (eyes closed): Drink some Ginger Ale.
Jeff: I did already. It’s not helping. Come on, let’s go.
Me (annoyed) : Are you sure we have to go? Maybe it will pass.
Jeff: I don’t know, but I really don’t feel good.
Me (finally opening eyes): I’m soooooooooooo tired.
Jeff: Fine, don’t come then. (Jeff begins limping towards door).
Me (reluctantly): Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine. I’ll take you to the goddamn hospital. Geez.
What a bitch! Luckily Jeff forgave me. We took a car service to Methodist Hospital, or, as I affectionately refer to it, Ghost Town. Last May I took Jeff to the hospital (also early in the morning I might add – baby, can’t you wait until I wake up? Kidding. Kind of.) because he was having heart palpitations. It was 3:00 am or so and we walked into the emergency waiting room to find … a homeless woman asleep in a wheel chair. No nurses, no receptionist, no guards. We had to literally yell to get someone to come back from the break room to see what was going on.
Anyway, apparently people are on the job by 7:30. Jeff checked in and got himself a nice little cot and some IV fluids. I got myself the new ELLE magazine. I have to say that hospitals are pretty boring. From ER and Grey’s Anatomy, you’d never know that doctors aren’t always running around, shouting dramatically or, alternately, exchanging rapid fire repartee. Most of the doctors and nurses I saw reminded me of cubicle workers with med school degrees: kind of tired, kind of nonplussed, just plugging away at their jobs with a modicum of tolerance. I suppose if Jeff had been impaled on a metal rod or something, we would have gotten more attention, but I guess food poisoning isn’t the stuff of great drama, unless you count the race to the bathroom. It’s hard to run hooked up to an IV.
Last time we were at Methodist Jeff’s neighbor had been a totally out of it woman who cooed like a baby and had to have her diaper changed. This time we got an elderly man who couldn’t understand the term “catheter”. Needless to say, he got a big surprise. It was kind of like listening to a really cruel radio program.
After six hours of relative inactivity, Jeff was released and we ambled home. He is still sick, which just goes to show that I’m a bitch. Also a moron, because even if I was impaled by a metal rod I’d probably try a home remedy. Lesson of the week-end: Going to the hospital may be a pain in the ass (literally, in Jeff’s case – ha! Sorry, baby.) but sometimes – oh, what the hell, a lot of the time – it’s a good idea.