Crew doctor tries, and fails, to contain a laugh. “Good one.”
“Thanks,” I croak.
Hey, my voice works.
Now the elevator doors open, and I’m pushed onto a floor that I never knew existed in hospitals. The music changes to something classical, Bach maybe, and the walls have gone from industrial beige cement bricks to expensive shiny oak paneling. Swank. An extraordinarily, and I do mean extraordinarily , hot nurse with light blond hair, Barbie doll figure, the works, joins my gurney procession, and I decide that my speedy recovery will be as slow as I can possibly make it. In fact, I may never get better.
“This way,” she says perkily to J. Crew doctor, and suddenly I’m in a private room that has a wide expanse of tall windows overlooking the deep chasm of the Goshen River. Very pretty from this distance—you could almost forget that a quick dip in that industrial sewage trough would immediately burn all the flesh off your body. There are also a variety of machines, which I’m immediately plugged into, and while hot nurse tapes electrodes to my chest (her hands are warm, and there’s a waft of floral perfume), something sharp pricks my arm—damn!—J. Crew doctor hooks me into an IV, and then, holy fuck , Village People doctor is inserting a tube into my penis, which is so not right on any number of levels.
“It’s just a catheter,” says J. Crew doctor, reading my pained expression. “We’re going to be flushing your system with an intense amount of thiamine and glucose.”
I try to say “Couldn’t you give a guy some warning?” but the only thing that comes out is “Warning?”
“Sorry.” J. Crew doctor scribbles something onto a chart. Nurse Barbie is now hooking up the catheter to a clear bag that hangs from the end of the hospital bed. Embarrassingly bright yellow piss starts to gush.
I have died and gone to hell.
“Now Mr. Petrov—”
“Dimitri.”
“Dimitri,” replies J. Crew doctor with a tense smile. “I’m Dr. Conway. Do you have any allergies to medications, or are you currently taking any medication?”
I shake my head no.
“Now, and this is important to answer honestly—I’m not here to judge—but are you doing any drugs?”
I shake my head no again. Village People doctor raises his eyebrows.
“Nothing? Not even pot?”
At this they all look at me seriously, and I can tell that there’s more to this question than they’re able or willing to tell me. I try to raise my hand and find that my wrists are tied to the sides of the gurney with loops of hard plastic. Son of a bitch.
“Just a precaution,” says Dr. Conway. “When you regained consciousness you experienced grand mal seizures, and we need to make sure those are over, since you’re now hooked up to the IV.”
Seizures I understand, “grand mal” not so much. Sounds like an excessively large size of espresso. Which reminds me, caffeine could be considered a drug, although I like to consider it my little friend .
“Coffee.” My throat is on fire—why the hell has no one thought to get me some water?
Dr. Conway tilts his head. “Coffee really isn’t the best idea right now; we’re administering some sedatives.”
“No,” I croak. Thank God Nurse Barbie is on the scene, because she connects the dots and finally picks up a sippy cup with a bent straw from the hospital nightstand, settling the straw in my mouth. I take a few grateful sips.
My head clears, and I suddenly feel surprisingly lucid. I try a complete sentence. “I drink a lot of coffee.”
Success. I’ll be out of here in no time.
“Define a lot,” says Dr. Conway.
“Seriously intense Colombian coffee. Even the water I make it with is caffeinated.”
“I take it you don’t care for sleep?”
I shrug. “Overrated.” I take a moment before I ask the real question. “Was it just my imagination or did I come to in some kind of morgue?”
Dr. Conway gives Nurse Barbie and Village People doctor a meaningful glance, and
“Thanks,” I croak.
Hey, my voice works.
Now the elevator doors open, and I’m pushed onto a floor that I never knew existed in hospitals. The music changes to something classical, Bach maybe, and the walls have gone from industrial beige cement bricks to expensive shiny oak paneling. Swank. An extraordinarily, and I do mean extraordinarily , hot nurse with light blond hair, Barbie doll figure, the works, joins my gurney procession, and I decide that my speedy recovery will be as slow as I can possibly make it. In fact, I may never get better.
“This way,” she says perkily to J. Crew doctor, and suddenly I’m in a private room that has a wide expanse of tall windows overlooking the deep chasm of the Goshen River. Very pretty from this distance—you could almost forget that a quick dip in that industrial sewage trough would immediately burn all the flesh off your body. There are also a variety of machines, which I’m immediately plugged into, and while hot nurse tapes electrodes to my chest (her hands are warm, and there’s a waft of floral perfume), something sharp pricks my arm—damn!—J. Crew doctor hooks me into an IV, and then, holy fuck , Village People doctor is inserting a tube into my penis, which is so not right on any number of levels.
“It’s just a catheter,” says J. Crew doctor, reading my pained expression. “We’re going to be flushing your system with an intense amount of thiamine and glucose.”
I try to say “Couldn’t you give a guy some warning?” but the only thing that comes out is “Warning?”
“Sorry.” J. Crew doctor scribbles something onto a chart. Nurse Barbie is now hooking up the catheter to a clear bag that hangs from the end of the hospital bed. Embarrassingly bright yellow piss starts to gush.
I have died and gone to hell.
“Now Mr. Petrov—”
“Dimitri.”
“Dimitri,” replies J. Crew doctor with a tense smile. “I’m Dr. Conway. Do you have any allergies to medications, or are you currently taking any medication?”
I shake my head no.
“Now, and this is important to answer honestly—I’m not here to judge—but are you doing any drugs?”
I shake my head no again. Village People doctor raises his eyebrows.
“Nothing? Not even pot?”
At this they all look at me seriously, and I can tell that there’s more to this question than they’re able or willing to tell me. I try to raise my hand and find that my wrists are tied to the sides of the gurney with loops of hard plastic. Son of a bitch.
“Just a precaution,” says Dr. Conway. “When you regained consciousness you experienced grand mal seizures, and we need to make sure those are over, since you’re now hooked up to the IV.”
Seizures I understand, “grand mal” not so much. Sounds like an excessively large size of espresso. Which reminds me, caffeine could be considered a drug, although I like to consider it my little friend .
“Coffee.” My throat is on fire—why the hell has no one thought to get me some water?
Dr. Conway tilts his head. “Coffee really isn’t the best idea right now; we’re administering some sedatives.”
“No,” I croak. Thank God Nurse Barbie is on the scene, because she connects the dots and finally picks up a sippy cup with a bent straw from the hospital nightstand, settling the straw in my mouth. I take a few grateful sips.
My head clears, and I suddenly feel surprisingly lucid. I try a complete sentence. “I drink a lot of coffee.”
Success. I’ll be out of here in no time.
“Define a lot,” says Dr. Conway.
“Seriously intense Colombian coffee. Even the water I make it with is caffeinated.”
“I take it you don’t care for sleep?”
I shrug. “Overrated.” I take a moment before I ask the real question. “Was it just my imagination or did I come to in some kind of morgue?”
Dr. Conway gives Nurse Barbie and Village People doctor a meaningful glance, and
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