The Place To Be On A Sat. Night at Midnight...

...is the hospital emergency room. More entertainment than opening night of a movie. More gripping than a best-seller novel you just got your hands on. And it only costs you your deductible.

Scene: Triage room. Sitting a few feet away from a certifiable nut job, separated by a tacky plastic curtain.

Nurse: I need your full name please.
Patient: (defiant) You're not getting that information.
Nurse: I can't help you if I don't have your name.
Patient: (looking around nervously) I'll give you my first name and last initial.

Nurse: Do you feel safe at home?
Patient: (clearly offended) I don't know why you're asking me that.
Nurse: Okay, do you feel the urge to hurt yourself?
Patient: (breaking out his legal jargon) We're not going to pursue that line of questioning.
Nurse: These are just general questions we ask everyone. Again, do you feel the urge to hurt yourself?
Patient: (somewhat defeated) No.
Nurse: Why are you here tonight?
Patient: (channeling his inner-Bourne) I believe you guys put a tracking device in my arm last time I was here.
Nurse: Why would we do that?
Patient: I don't have any proof, but I suspect it. Last time I was here you gave me medicine that made me forget everything you were doing to me.
Nurse: When were you diagnosed with schizophrenia?
Patient: (obviously) I don't have schizophrenia.
Nurse: You don't?
Patient: Not to my knowledge have I ever been diagnosed.
Nurse: You're on medication for paranoid schizophrenia.
Patient: It's for my epilepsy.
Nurse: Who's your psychologist?
Patient: I don't have one.
Nurse: Who's your social worker?
Patient: (back to his original plan of attack) I'm not giving you that information.
Nurse: Well usually I'd order blood work for you right now, but since you're accusing us of placing a tracking device in your arm, I'll just let you talk with a doctor.

Scene: back in the ER waiting room. Watching patients walk in and out of the automatic doors.

Take 1: Straggly-haired, middle-aged man sporting an orange jumpsuit and shiny shackles on his feet walks out of the ER and into the waiting area accompanied by an armed security guard and a less-than-classy broad on him arm.
Cop to inmate: Make it quick and stay outside the door.
Nurse: Where's HE going?
Cop: I let him smoke 1/2 a drag before he gets admitted.
Nurse: (alarmed and very uppity) NOT ON OUR PROPERTY HE DOESN'T! You just let him walk out there?
Cop: Oh man, I better go get 'em.

Take 2: Woman runs to the back of the check-in line, duffel bag on her shoulder, holding her hand to her mouth and dry-heaving.
More dry-heaving.
Girl doubles over, gagging.
Girl: Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Please, no.
Crying. More crying. Gagging, and more gagging.
Girl to registrar: Um, you guys just discharged me. I think something's wrong.


1 painful ultrasound, 3 over-exuberant nurses, one over-confident IV-inserter ("I can do this in the dark with both eyes closed."), 4 near-misses by my Patient Transporter down a dark and deserted hallway on my hospital bed, and 5 1/2 hours later, Mr. Doc diagnoses Mrs. Mann with Biliary Colic, a.k.a. gallstones. Treatment: surgical removal of my under-utilized, but over-inflamed gallbladder. Is that TMI for a blog post? Maybe, but I didn't want to leave you hanging after I told you we spent the night in the ER. It may have started your imagination running in places it needn't be running.

Nevertheless, we arrived home just before the Easter Bunny arrived at our house to deliver treats and goodies to all who survived the night.