Adventures in the Emergency Room
A knock on the door.
“We come bearing tea.” Mitch, my older brother, prompted from the other side.
I opened the door to my room, letting in my uncharacteristically smiling brothers Frank and Mitch.
“So.. how are you feeling?” Frank asked, hesitantly.
“Bad.”
“Really? Even after all the insulin?” Mitch asked.
“I’ve barely eaten or drunk anything all day, been in an uncomfortable chair for around six hours doing nothing, I’ve peed into a cup at least four times, I came home with half the blood I left with, and I’ve been injected more times than I can count with a hormone that my body has not had access to for approximately three months.”
“So.. basically a day in college?” Mitch cheeked, trying to lighten the mood.
Unfortunately I'm not exaggerating, not even a little bit. It all began at 8-o-clock AM this morning.
“WAKE UP! And remember.. NO food and NO water until after the blood test!” Mom shrieked, throwing the door to my room open.
Mom dropped Mitch, Frank, and Dad off at the gov’t building, then parked near the tiny clinic that’d been recommended by Amparo, our Spanish neighbour that we'd met after our first few weeks living in Valencia.
The doctor assigned to us was young, good-looking, and the definition of a morning person. He was flying around the room multitasking, a smile blazing forth from his well-sculpted chin. In Spanish, he asked me if I’d prefer to sit or stand (he personally recommended sit.) I sat on the bed, and he (again with blistering enthusiasm), asked if I’d prefer my left forearm or my right. I proffered my left.
(Good decision! Honestly one of the best decisions I made all day)
With zeal he drew the crimson in my arms into four vials, two small, two large.
I felt relieved when he finally withdrew the needle from my arm. I don't much care for needles.
With another smile he took one of my fingers, squeezed pressure into a blushed lump at the end, and pricked it. He waved the blood over a tiny machine.
“Ala! Muy alto!” His excited energy mingled with a touch of fear. The number on the machine showed that my blood sugar rate was 457. I'd no idea as to the particular significance of that number, but from his reaction I gauged it wasn't pretty.
He thrust a cup into my hands for me to pee in.
(The first of many.)
Upon returning Mother informed me that we were to go to the emergency room in Sagunto's main hospital, Sagunto being the pitiful pueblo where we bought our house 6 months ago.
“But I feel completely normal!” I protested.
They printed a letter for us to present, something in Spanish. We picked up the rest of the family on our way, whom were all looking at me rather strangely, as if I were some alien dropped down into the car seat besides them.
With a casual air we located the emergency room.
The emergency section is not what it looks like in the movies. There were no people rushed in on stretchers, no crazed eyewitnesses to horrific gory incidents, in fact, there was no air of urgency whatsoever.
We approached old female receptionist, who (with leisure), pointed us in the direction of an old office, in which we had to register ourselves before treatment.The office ladies, with the same laid-back air, formulated the cards.
We were chauffeured to a waiting room of sorts, where all sorts of old Spaniards were waiting their turn. This gave Mom ample time to freak herself out. Through the internet we found that the normal blood sugar rate after a fast should be around 120.
Which meant mine was 300 points above average.
So why the hell did I feel so normal?
“I’m sure it’s just the milkshake from last night..”
I began my refined routine of denial. I’m not really diabetic no.. that drink last night just shocked my body and its sugar count…the machine must have made a mistaken reading..
But at another finger prick and still above the average it was getting harder to deny. Once admitted they took more blood for another test, and requested I pee into another cup.
I sat on the stretcher which they’d laid me out on while the doctor conversed in rapid Spanish with Mom and Dad.
“So she’s diabetic..” I heard Dad translate for my Mom.
Diabetic? No.
Diabetic? Noo.
Diabetic? No way.
Diabetics had to inject themselves with insulin everyday, diabetics couldn’t eat chocolates or candy.
Diabetic? Nuh uh.
Diabetic? Not me.
But as the nurse attached a drip at my left forearm it was getting harder to lie to myself.
Tears sprung into my eyes as I stared at the drip veining it's way into me and the gown they’d made me wear.
The doctors translated that only one of them could come with me, but only to translate. Seeing as Dad had better Spanish speaking abilities, he was chosen. My mind shirked even further as a young male nurse wheeled a chair in, offering it to me. I wanted to lament that I could walk myself, but at that point the fight within me was dying.
He wheeled me, (I tried to sob as quietly as I could to preserve some sense of dignity), into a large room with many big chairs lined up against a wall. He readjusted the drip, put me in a seat, and left me with Dad.
“Tell me.. why exactly are you sad?” Dad asked, concerned.
I sobbed a good ten minutes. Dad hugged me and wiped a few tears away from his own eyes. The drip took a long time to empty. I felt the slow rhythmic movement in my forearm. In, then out. In, then out. I shuddered, breaking up my relaxation so that I couldn't feel the needle so poignantly anymore, sniffling up more tears.
When the drip finished the nurse brought me a juice pack and cookies.
“Here’s the gourmet meal you’ve been waiting for.” Dad joked, tears in his eyes.
After that minute meal I sank into my chair with hunger, and wear. Dad encouraged me to nap, but I was far too hungry for that. People, most of them debilitatingly old, came and went.
One rather talkative old fellow engaged Papa in conversation.
“Azúcar?” He guessed.
After hearing the details he left off, sadly repeating. “Solo quince años.. quince..” Other patients had similar reactions.
“Ella está muy joven.. muy joven..”
The nurse was constantly pricking one of my fingers, taking blood, giving me more insulin. My head hurt, my body ached, my left forearm cried from the stress of the needle. Dad and I sat, weakened in the emergency sector of the Sagunto hospital as the hours passed us by.
An endocrinologist came, she was also quite old. She showed me my medicine, my injections. She showed me how to use them, and charted the food I could eat, and the food that I had to avoid. Theoretically I should be able to eat everything- but in moderation. She left us with the promise that she’d help me figure everything out.
Out of our immense boredom, Dad birthed a few of his old childhood stories. He told me of his childhood in Pakistan, my Spanish Grandma featured in many of them. He held my cold drip hand and arranged a trench coat around me to keep me warm. He smiled and made funny faces at me to keep me entertained and went out in pursuit of food that wasn’t there.
Older patients looked longingly at us, for they'd all come alone.
Around 6 PM we were finally let out of the hospital- with the promise that if I experienced any strange symptoms (like sharp pain in my stomach) I’d return immediately.
Mom picked us up and covered me in kisses. On the car ride back Mom and Dad fought over how to react.The thing is- they have polar opposite reaction to stress.
Mom tends to over react, and offend any feelings pertaining to staying calm while Dad under reacts and rationalizes everything at an amazing pace. Between these two marks I was able to find a stable medium, and end the sobbing for the day.
At dinner I jabbed (Dad's favorite word for this situation) the minuscule needle into the soft side of my belly slowly, alone, then ate platefuls of Moms Pakistani food. By the end of the meal I craved something sweet, and reflected aloud on my lack of satisfaction. Mom perked up and (rather proudly) brought out the three bars of 'diabetic' chocolate that she’d found in the supermarket today. Dad scrutinised each one, checking the backs before finally deciding it was alright for me to have some.. but only some.
I returned to bed with a pounding head and tired limbs- this is the start of my new life, I guess. My life as a diabetic.