NaNoWriMo Story
Word Count: 12,003
Goal: 12,000
Per Day Goal: 2,000
Target: 50,000
We pass through the doors into the most unintimidating Emergency Room that you can possibly imagine. You have probably seen those huge ERs on TV. They have dozens of patents, doctors and nurses and police hustling here and there. The scene here is exactly not that.
There is a bored looking nurse sitting behind a Plexiglas window. She is reading a romance novel, and paying no attention to us. The waiting room has about 12 chairs in it, and a television mounted on the wall transmits the morning news to the empty room.
In principle, an empty Emergency Room is a good thing. It means that no one needs their services. People do not tend to visit the ER for fun.
Allison gives me one last reassuring look and I approach the window. The nurse looks up expectantly, as if I might be disturbing her otherwise busy schedule.
“Hi, um, I have a peculiar problem.”
She laughs sharply. “Don't we all.” Her voice is sharp, and squeaky, like a rusty door.
Her kind reply does not fill me with confidence. I go on. “Right, I have lost my memory. I don't remember anything before 4:30 this morning,” I explain.
She looks at me intently. Perhaps trying to figure out if I am playing some kind of joke on her. She finally shrugs and hands me a clip board. “Fill this out. Bring it back to me when you are done.”
I go to thank her, but she has already picked up her book again. Allison is waiting back in one of the chairs for me when I sit down with the clip board. “Service with a snarl,” she whispers as I sit down.
I set about filling out the form. It feels a bit like a test I forgot to study for. More accurately, it is like an exam in a class I have not been taking. The name and address information is pretty easy. I am able to fill that out because I have been studying that material. Then it gets to medical history. I do not even know what I was doing yesterday, so I certainly cannot answer with certainty if I have traveled to Europe in the last 15 years.
I have a thought that I could look at each question, and if the specific ailment they ask about draws a complete blank for me, then it might be relevant, so I will circle it. Then, I have a thought of having a stroke while I sit here for four hours trying to dig encrypted data out of my brain, and decide to leave the history section blank.
Having completed all that I can, I return to the window and bring the clip board. I hand the woman the form, and she looks over it. I am expecting her to take a red pen and place a grade in the corner. She flips the page and immediately scowls at the medical history page.
“Sir,” she says sharply, as she looks up. “There is another page here for medical history, which you left entirely blank.”
If I kill her, they may refuse to treat me.
In my calmest tone, I reply. “I saw that. Unfortunately, I have entirely lost my memory before 4:30 this morning. That makes filling out the medical history somewhat difficult.”
It is possible that I accidentally said that last part in Swahili, because she replies thusly in flat and measured tones. “Sir, there is a reason why they have a medical history section. You may have allergies to medications or underlying medical conditions which could come up during treatment, and it is very important that the doctor knows about them before they look at you.”
Clearly this woman knows her job, and no amnesic civilian off the street is going to make her go against clearly well established protocol. I nod agreeably. “Certainly, let me fill that right in for you.”
She shoves the clip board back out to me through the space in the window. I take the history form and quickly place a check mark in every 'no' box.
Been pregnant. No.
Cancer. No.
Asthma. No.
Family history of heart disease. No.
And on down the list. After all, the eggs did not kill me. Let us hope that strong magnetic fields will not either. I sure would be surprised to discover I have a pacemaker. I would be especially surprised to find out in an MRI machine, but I suspect that I would not have terribly long to think about it.
I hand the form back to the nurse, and she appears pleased that all of the proper steps were followed. She informs me that someone would be out shortly, and that I should sit back down. I do so.
“They have these procedures for a reason, you know,” Allison informs me ironically when I sit down.
“Indeed they do,” I agree. “Fortunately, I answered no to all the questions, so now I don't have any allergies or medical conditions. What a great way to cure disease. Just answer no on questionnaires asking if you are ill!”
After a few minutes, a friendlier looking nurse comes into the waiting room. “Mister Marcus?” she asks.
I stand. “Yes, that's me.”
“Come on in.” She turns to Allison. “Are you kin?”
Allison smiles at that one. Turning to me, she says. “I'll wait out here for you. It's been a while since I was able to just sit and watch the morning news.”
I follow the friendly nurse through the doorway into the Emergency Room proper. She leads me past a few empty examination rooms to the room I will be seen in. “Wait in here, and a doctor will be here to see you shortly.”
I thank her and make myself comfortable in the room. There is not much there. A couple chairs, a bed, a pain chart on the wall with numbers 1 to 10 and smiley faces showing various degrees of distress. The magazines are relatively current, so I set to reading Newsweek. Knowing a bit about current events could come in handy. Looks like things are not going so well in Afghanistan. That is too bad.
After a while, a doctor finally comes in. I explain my situation, and he appears very intrigued.
“Woke up on a sidewalk with no memory, you say,” he summarizes. His name badge shows his name to be Doctor Zimmer.
“That's about the size of it,” I reply.
He does a brief examination. Shines a light in my eyes. Probes my head for bleeding of bruises. Does various other things.
“Nothing physically wrong that I can find with a quick examination. I'm going to send you for a CAT scan to make sure you don't have any deeper issues inside your brain. However, I suspect that this is more of a psychological event.” He starts writing something on my file. “While you are up getting the test, I'm going to see if we can get a psych consult for you.”
I nod understanding. “OK,” I say, concern showing.
He places his hand gently on my shoulder, in that kind way that doctors sometimes do. “There's nothing to worry about. He's not going to try to hold you here. We just want to get an idea of what is going on with you, which, since you came here in the first place, I suspect you might like to do as well.”
His manner is calm and confident. While a small voice in the back of my head tells me that this is what they always say before they try to lock you up, the rest of my mind thinks that maybe there is not too much to worry about.
Dr. Zimmer returns to the file and writes a few more things. “Wait here, and a nurse will be down shortly to lead you up to the room for the CAT scan,” he says before heading out of the room.
Goal: 12,000
Per Day Goal: 2,000
Target: 50,000
We pass through the doors into the most unintimidating Emergency Room that you can possibly imagine. You have probably seen those huge ERs on TV. They have dozens of patents, doctors and nurses and police hustling here and there. The scene here is exactly not that.
There is a bored looking nurse sitting behind a Plexiglas window. She is reading a romance novel, and paying no attention to us. The waiting room has about 12 chairs in it, and a television mounted on the wall transmits the morning news to the empty room.
In principle, an empty Emergency Room is a good thing. It means that no one needs their services. People do not tend to visit the ER for fun.
Allison gives me one last reassuring look and I approach the window. The nurse looks up expectantly, as if I might be disturbing her otherwise busy schedule.
“Hi, um, I have a peculiar problem.”
She laughs sharply. “Don't we all.” Her voice is sharp, and squeaky, like a rusty door.
Her kind reply does not fill me with confidence. I go on. “Right, I have lost my memory. I don't remember anything before 4:30 this morning,” I explain.
She looks at me intently. Perhaps trying to figure out if I am playing some kind of joke on her. She finally shrugs and hands me a clip board. “Fill this out. Bring it back to me when you are done.”
I go to thank her, but she has already picked up her book again. Allison is waiting back in one of the chairs for me when I sit down with the clip board. “Service with a snarl,” she whispers as I sit down.
I set about filling out the form. It feels a bit like a test I forgot to study for. More accurately, it is like an exam in a class I have not been taking. The name and address information is pretty easy. I am able to fill that out because I have been studying that material. Then it gets to medical history. I do not even know what I was doing yesterday, so I certainly cannot answer with certainty if I have traveled to Europe in the last 15 years.
I have a thought that I could look at each question, and if the specific ailment they ask about draws a complete blank for me, then it might be relevant, so I will circle it. Then, I have a thought of having a stroke while I sit here for four hours trying to dig encrypted data out of my brain, and decide to leave the history section blank.
Having completed all that I can, I return to the window and bring the clip board. I hand the woman the form, and she looks over it. I am expecting her to take a red pen and place a grade in the corner. She flips the page and immediately scowls at the medical history page.
“Sir,” she says sharply, as she looks up. “There is another page here for medical history, which you left entirely blank.”
If I kill her, they may refuse to treat me.
In my calmest tone, I reply. “I saw that. Unfortunately, I have entirely lost my memory before 4:30 this morning. That makes filling out the medical history somewhat difficult.”
It is possible that I accidentally said that last part in Swahili, because she replies thusly in flat and measured tones. “Sir, there is a reason why they have a medical history section. You may have allergies to medications or underlying medical conditions which could come up during treatment, and it is very important that the doctor knows about them before they look at you.”
Clearly this woman knows her job, and no amnesic civilian off the street is going to make her go against clearly well established protocol. I nod agreeably. “Certainly, let me fill that right in for you.”
She shoves the clip board back out to me through the space in the window. I take the history form and quickly place a check mark in every 'no' box.
Been pregnant. No.
Cancer. No.
Asthma. No.
Family history of heart disease. No.
And on down the list. After all, the eggs did not kill me. Let us hope that strong magnetic fields will not either. I sure would be surprised to discover I have a pacemaker. I would be especially surprised to find out in an MRI machine, but I suspect that I would not have terribly long to think about it.
I hand the form back to the nurse, and she appears pleased that all of the proper steps were followed. She informs me that someone would be out shortly, and that I should sit back down. I do so.
“They have these procedures for a reason, you know,” Allison informs me ironically when I sit down.
“Indeed they do,” I agree. “Fortunately, I answered no to all the questions, so now I don't have any allergies or medical conditions. What a great way to cure disease. Just answer no on questionnaires asking if you are ill!”
After a few minutes, a friendlier looking nurse comes into the waiting room. “Mister Marcus?” she asks.
I stand. “Yes, that's me.”
“Come on in.” She turns to Allison. “Are you kin?”
Allison smiles at that one. Turning to me, she says. “I'll wait out here for you. It's been a while since I was able to just sit and watch the morning news.”
I follow the friendly nurse through the doorway into the Emergency Room proper. She leads me past a few empty examination rooms to the room I will be seen in. “Wait in here, and a doctor will be here to see you shortly.”
I thank her and make myself comfortable in the room. There is not much there. A couple chairs, a bed, a pain chart on the wall with numbers 1 to 10 and smiley faces showing various degrees of distress. The magazines are relatively current, so I set to reading Newsweek. Knowing a bit about current events could come in handy. Looks like things are not going so well in Afghanistan. That is too bad.
After a while, a doctor finally comes in. I explain my situation, and he appears very intrigued.
“Woke up on a sidewalk with no memory, you say,” he summarizes. His name badge shows his name to be Doctor Zimmer.
“That's about the size of it,” I reply.
He does a brief examination. Shines a light in my eyes. Probes my head for bleeding of bruises. Does various other things.
“Nothing physically wrong that I can find with a quick examination. I'm going to send you for a CAT scan to make sure you don't have any deeper issues inside your brain. However, I suspect that this is more of a psychological event.” He starts writing something on my file. “While you are up getting the test, I'm going to see if we can get a psych consult for you.”
I nod understanding. “OK,” I say, concern showing.
He places his hand gently on my shoulder, in that kind way that doctors sometimes do. “There's nothing to worry about. He's not going to try to hold you here. We just want to get an idea of what is going on with you, which, since you came here in the first place, I suspect you might like to do as well.”
His manner is calm and confident. While a small voice in the back of my head tells me that this is what they always say before they try to lock you up, the rest of my mind thinks that maybe there is not too much to worry about.
Dr. Zimmer returns to the file and writes a few more things. “Wait here, and a nurse will be down shortly to lead you up to the room for the CAT scan,” he says before heading out of the room.