(NON)Emergency Room

I don't know what's worse - sitting in an emergency room/daycare for five hours or being felt up by a gorgeous-beyond-reason MD while my husband watched. 

Scratch that last part.   That was actually pretty cool.

Why was I banished to the ER?  Well, after three weeks of sharp, stabbing pains in my right ribs, I called my doctor who told me to "Go the Emergency Room, NOW!" - do not pass go, do NOT collect $200 - just GO.

So, I left work, a little freaked after being told that it was probably my Galbladder ready to erupt - JOY - and, after picking up my mom (she refused to let me go alone) we checked in and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Four hours.  Finally, mom went to the window.  They said that they had called my name two hours ago and that I chose not to respond.

Yes, I just enjoy the frickin' waiting room so much with it's infectious diseases and barefoot hilljack children that I  chose not to respond.  I was BEYOND pissed. 

And of COURSE - they want my blood.   I hate that crap.  I could've gone in for a stuffed-up nose and a skinny nurse with a bad perm would've made eye contact with her clipboard and said "yeah - we're gonna  need a blood sample."  

Poor Dave.

He came in, was as gentle as if I was a blood-virgin and then talked to me while I tried to remain conscious. 

Didn't work.

"Dave," I said to him, "You were great, really.  But I'm gonna throw up.  Or pass out.  I haven't decided yet." 

He made me lie down and reclined the bottom part of the bed so that my feet were up in the air and my breasts, clad in a horrible blue gown, were somewhere near my ears.

A little while later, I felt better, didn't throw up or make nice with the linoleum and - in walked my doctor.

Angels sang and either I was still a bit out of it, or else a halo appeared from behind his dark, dreamy curls. 

"Um, why do they have you in the (medical term I didn't understand in the least) position?"

"I don't like having my blood taken.  I tend to hit the floor," I drool to him and manage a pathetic chuckle.

He smiled.

I 'bout fainted again.

He fixed my bed and then sat down to talk to me.

"How are you today?" he asked.

"Fine," I lie, cursing my lack of lipstick and the fact that I'm so "lucky" to end up in the ER on two separate occasions and end up with two very hot doctors each time.

Harry knocks then.  He drove in from Raleigh in the time it took me to get to see a Doctor.  Now THAT'S efficient.

The gorgeous doctor manipulates my arm and rubs my rib cage.  I giggle. 

I'm ticklish.

And wishing I'd shaved my pits.  Jeez!

"I don't think it's your Galbladder," he says in that deep baritone voice, " I think it's an inflamed cartlidge between your rib cage and breast bone."  I'm relieved as I watch him explain the body and how it needs cartlidge to remain flexible.  He leaves to set up an x-ray, just in case one of my ribs may be cracked.

I look up at Harry and smile. I'm so happy he's there.

"Quit drooling over the doctor," he says to me with a big grin as he strokes my head.

"I wasn't.  Much." I said.  He kissed me on the forehead. 

Seven hours after arriving at St. Mary's Medical Center of Hurry Up and Wait  - I leave.

The bonus?

I have a prescription for Loratab and a day off work .

Not to mention the quasi-threesome with the hot doctor.

Yeah, I still got it.  Inflamed cartlidge and all...