Against my better judgement, I recently spent a wonderfully pleasant afternoon at the local emergency room being poked and prodded. Cost: $250. Diagnosis: A shrug of the shoulders and a “Who knows?”
Sitting in my lovely hospital gown, I pondered all the reasons I hate hospitals and came up with the following list:
#1. Urine samples: Men have it easy while peeing into a cup (or in the woods). Women—not so much. After having received SPECIFIC instructions on how to pee into a tiny cup, I was sent to the bathroom–where I proceeded to pee all over my hand, arm and possibly my hair. A small amount made it in the cup.
#2. ER beds: The “bed” I was “resting” on was what they called a “pelvic bed” (which freaked me out to begin with), so the bottom half of the mattress was detachable. Well, it kept detaching and sliding off the bedframe. As I’m rolling down the hallway to the ultrasound room, the lower half of my body is hanging off the gurney so I’m walk/riding to the room. Classy.
#3. Ultrasound gel: First of all, NO, I’m not pregnant. If that was the case, I would have them take me directly to the morgue. Second, the gel they use to magically look at your insides is kept in below-freezing conditions until it’s just the right temperature to cause frostbite.
Nurse: “This might be a little cold.”
Me: “Really? No s***.”
#4. Being referred to as “middle-aged”: No more comment necessary.
#5. Lack of diagnosis: A visit to the doctor, a trip to the ER, blood tests, urine tests, an ultrasound and various poky procedures: No clue.
Me: “Okay, then. I guess I’ll go home.”
Doc: “Make sure you leave the gown.”
Whatever. I paid good money for that gown.