.
"Mr. Hobobob. You have to go to an emergency room imme- diately."I'm tired Wednesday morning, but I'm also scheduled to go to Bellevue Hospital for my 9/11 clinic check up. That's fine. I've been waiting a month to be scheduled again since I screwed up going to the last one. I'm going to be monitored for the next few years and given tests and shit and best of all, THERAPY! I really can't wait.
So, I head out to get there by 8:30am. I hop on the 96th street bus, which was packed like sardines mind you. I came shoulder to shoulder with New York and had to stick the book that I was reading down my throat to keep from screaming my heart through my ribcage. It was just that stressful for me. I burrowed into my book, wishing that I had that drink or two to loosen me up for the ride, but I had long since disposed of that crutch.
From the crowded 96, I transferred to the downtown 15 bus which hobbled and weaved through downtown traffic and over wide potholes. Like a shit traveling through the digestive system, it worked it's way through the crowded streets until it stopped two blocks away from Bellevue nearly a half hour late. I walked to the hospital and went to the 2nd floor of the immense building and was seen right away, even though there were lines of people in front of the clinic and other resources of the hospital, such as X-rays, Sonograms, Cat scans, blah, blah, blah.
As soon as I get in, my vitals are taken, I'm questioned, my blood is taken, my body is checked, I am asked more questions, my lungs are tested, my brain tapped and then downstairs to the X-ray and EKG machines. Once again, I am given one of those smocks that does not go completely around my body, but I am allowed to keep my pants on so that I didn't have to either show my willie or my ass to the world.
I am tired now, and I am released from upstairs. Now I am instructed to go DOWN- STAIRS to the Mental Health clinic where I will be assigned a therapist. I thought I had already seen a therapist? No, the woman that I spoke to had only one function: to see if it was safe to let me out of the room. If I was a danger to myself or others. I had just passed. If I had failed, it would have meant the guys with the jackets that buckle in the back and a rubber room somewhere in the depths of the building. That place I've heard about and I'm grateful that I didn't end up in.
I was exhausted from being in the clinic for the entire day, and going down- stairs, I was told that I would have to wait until a professional could see me. I was too tired to wait, neither was I looking forward to riding back home on the bus during rush hour. I would come back another day. I left, and rode the moderately packed buses back home, which was good, and stumbled up the stairs. Every bone in my body aching, my shoulders and arms heavy with fatigue. Tomorrow I will have to DJ on IRC all night, so I needed my rest.
I jumped into bed as soon as I got home and closed my eyes, drifting off into a fitful sleep when the cell phone in my room rang and rang. I was deciding to let it ring itself out but I got up and checked the phone number. It was one that I did not know. Who is it, I asked?
"This is blah, blah, blah, from the World Trade Center clinic. We just got your blood work back and your potassium levels are extremely high," she said. So what? "You are at great risk of heart failure! Mr. Hobobob. You have to go to an emergency room immediately." Sure, I said rather tiredly, which she mistook for nonchalantly. "I'm serious Mr. Hobobob. You could die right where you're standing. You must go immediately to seek medical attention."
Okay, okay, I get it, I tell her. "Please call us back so that we can follow up on what happened to you, Mr. Hobobob." I certainly will, I assure her. I hang up the phone, crawl back into bed and throw the sheets over my head.
I wonder about death while I slept. What a novel oppor- tunity.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2011/05/put-smile-on-your-ass.html
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