Racing to keep pace with my imminent discharge from Sacred Heart Hospital, the solitary Spokane medical facility worthy of any of the words, alone or in tandem, that comprise its name, my daughter and grand daughter mucked out my bedroom to create for me, just stricken to crisis by an allergy-triggered sinus infection that first flaunted its superiority to our antibiotics and then spread into my stomach, rendering me permanently nauseous. Nine days of intense struggle to stay hydrated: exhausting! I put up a good fight, what with ice chips and Gatorade.
But it ended as I should have known all along it would, with me on my hands and knees vomiting dry heaves punctuating my heartfelt pleas for merciful medicinals.
I didn’t last long in the Emergency waiting room. What horror struck the faces of my fellow Tuesday evening afflicted. “Find someplace to put hr,” a voice behind my head ordered a similarly-situated pair of ears, and I was whisked away to a tiny closet, the overflow Triage room.
Three hours later I finally saw a doctor. The nurses had syringes already loaded with pretty much exactly what the doctor ordered, and I folded my body around the warm flower of Dilaudid, opening lovingly in my belly.
Jeez I wish that feeling lasted more than just a couple of minutes.