Scenes of Mortality in the Emergency Room

A woman brought in on a gurney,

her neck secured in an elaborate plastic brace,

like she might have been an African queen once.

The old woman in a wheel chair,

accompanied by the younger woman.

It looks like we will be here all day,

the younger woman says.

I am festooned with electrodes

that are connected to wires that etch a waveform on a piece of paper,

and then the wires are removed,

but the electrodes remain

and I will remove some of them later that night when I go to bed.

The x-ray technician wheels me to the x-ray room

even though I tell her I can walk.

I don’t protest though,

and submit to the ride.

Inhale and hold, she says.

And then, Breathe!

She yells from the other room.

The phlebotomist works from a mobile station

and he is like a juggler,

a man with magic tricks,

how he handles needle, vials, tape, and cotton.

My blood looks surprisingly dark and gritty.

He holds a vial to the light to make sure he drew enough.

Throughout my visit,

they use my old married name and I correct them,

but it seems futile.

What does it matter who I am anyway?

I am discharged and by the time I pass the workstation,

I am forgotten.

There are other patients,

another gurney,

someone else’s vitals.

(I’m ok. Had chest pain/congestion, but it may just be a tweaked back. Just had it checked out to be safe.)

Dry Hill Cemetery, filled with tombstones dating from the 1800s.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog