What better way to start
off the unofficial summer season and a nice long weekend than driving myself to
the walk-in. Yup, nothing says welcome to three well-deserved days off with
more irony than being flat on my ass, sick with fever, chills, and chest congestion. I am prone to pneumonia despite living a relatively
healthy lifestyle and having already been inoculated with the pneumonia
vaccine, but none of this seems to convince my body otherwise.
At exactly 3 a.m. I awaken
in a cold panic feeling like I’m drowning but cannot loosen any congestion that
I painfully feel in my chest. After
hacking and, disgustingly enough, dry heaving for about five minutes, I decide
that the neighbors have probably heard enough and move myself downstairs to the
overstuffed chair, vowing to hit the walk-in the minute it opens.
At 8:30 (Sunday opening
time), I am the only non-staff car in the lot.
I know this because I am the only one not parked out in East Bumshoe
under the trees. This is good. It means I’ll be first in, as if there is a
run for emergency services at the walk-in over the holiday. Everybody knows the crazies go to the regular
ER.
The nurse does the intake
evaluation, and I sit there flapping my legs back and forth like a little kid
in a high chair as I wait for the doc. I’ve
never been to this walk-in before. Even
though it is associated with my doctor’s office, the facility is brand-spanking
new. I have no idea who will be coming
in to see me.
Suddenly, in walks Dr.
Automaton.
I cannot tell how old he
is. His face is plastic; his black hair
is plastic; his demeanor is plastic. He
talks in a staccato monotone that reminds me of a robot. I try to ask questions, but the glare in his
eyes tells me he absolutely is not done talking and does not understand the
give-and-take of polite nor serious conversation.
It kind of freaks me out
like I’ve somehow gone to sleep and awakened in the Age of Artificial
Intelligence. I realize that there is no
one else here but a few staff and me, and I suddenly think that maybe this wasn’t
my brightest idea trying to beat the crowd.
What if I disappear and end up as some kind of science experiment? Nobody even knows I’m here.
Dr. Automaton doesn’t
appear to be taking me seriously. He is
almost dismissive, but orders a chest x-ray, anyway. This is not my first nor even my second nor
seventh ride in the pneumonia rodeo, so I know how this is going to go. The doctor will either be surprised or pissed
that he cannot hear the crackles but there will be a spot there. I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise; I’d
be at CVS buying every cough medicine available to humanity.
The really nice tech has
to start the machine as I am Patient Zero of the day, but we finally get in and
get ‘er done: two x-rays, one front on and one from the side. I change back into my top and bra, go back,
and sit to wait.
This is where it starts to
get uncomfortable. This is where the
doctor comes in and says (and I swear to you that I am not making this shit
up), “The x-rays are inconclusive because you didn’t have nipple markers, and I
can’t tell the pneumonia from the nipples.”
I say … WHAT?!
 |
| (Apparently, these are nipple markers.) |
He orders the technician
to find some nipple markers and retake the x-ray. The tech searches around but cannot find nipple markers. To
be honest, if the doctor cannot decipher a nipple from a spot of pneumonia,
then I’m not sure I should be hanging around this joint much longer. The poor girl comes back in the room, very
apologetic, and takes me back to get another x-ray, even though no one has
located said nipple markers. While we are waiting to get going again, she
suddenly smiles and says, “Never mind.
The radiologist already read the first ones. You’re good.”
Oh, she knows.
And better, she knows I know. And
better still, the radiologist now knows that she knows that I know.
The report comes back as
bilateral pneumonia. Lucky me! It’s a two-fer! Shit, maybe the spots really are my
nipples. The doctor is totally pissed
and will not even let me speak to him while he chastises me that he does not
remotely believe that I have pneumonia, as if I made this all up so I could …
so I could … what … get antibiotics? Get
super-cough medicine? But, he must treat
it as such because that’s what the pictures say.
I have to be honest: I’m
trusting the x-ray tech and the radiologist on this one. I’m not sure Dr. Automaton could diagnose ear
wax at this point. I head out to the
pharmacy, relieved to be away from the creepy place. A couple of more people have wandered in to
be treated for various things, but I am over and done in one hour flat.
Of course, my daughter the
nurse asks if I got a note to be out of work.
Uh. Shit. Um … no.
But I should be okay as long as I don’t get sick from the
medication. We have state testing this
week, so I really should make an attempt.
Truth is I just wanted to get the hell out of that place as fast as I
could.
Besides, it’s just a
little tiny bit of double pneumonia. You
know, two spots about the size of nipples.
