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| The Storm e-magazine of Louisburg College students |
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wednesday Night, Emergency Room Night
fiction by Tommy Jenkins
Larry loves the Emergency Room. Wednesday night is his Emergency Room
night. He drives in the darkness, the lights of strip malls sliding by, soft rock
music the only thing slicing the interior quiet of the car, seeking out a new
Emergency Room. Sometimes he travels a county, two counties over from his
house.
Emergency Rooms shine an angelic white; they are really what a church should
look like. The tile floors are smooth and they reflect the overhead fluorescent
lights, giving them a glow like the floors on commercials for pine scented
cleaners. When Larry walks the Emergency Room floor he can feel the reflected
light against his face and imagines how it must cast luminescence around his
head, a halo of health.
By now, Larry knows the actions and key words for quick service. Act nervous:
plenty of tics, arms jerks, head bobs. Act like you can hardly stand still: rock from
one foot to the other, walk in little circles. Mention chest pain, shortness of
breath. The desk lady is patient and asks simple questions: name, address,
phone number. She speaks in calm tones as Larry steps a few feet away,
comes back, rubs his jittery arms. She asks about insurance and because of his
new job, Larry has insurance. He makes sure to pick at his wallet several times
to get it loose from his back pocket and then finds the magic card inside.
That first Wednesday, the first Emergency Room night, Larry had an authentic
panic attack. Flipping channels on the TV, thinking about things to do at his
office, more of this new city he needed to learn, remembering that he hadn’t
remembered to call his dad back, dreading a weekend trip to visit a friend that
he’d agreed to months ago, every channel he rested on people acting serious,
crying, sighing, eyes narrowing in anger, Larry’s chest tightened and his breath
got more and more shallow, like his lungs would only allow a small puff at a time.
He couldn’t be still. He walked the den, the bedroom, got his car keys thinking a
drive, some music, would calm him. At traffic lights he would bang on the
steering wheel, urging the thirty seconds between red and green to move faster,
faster. At 44, Larry thought about a heart attack.
At the first station in the Emergency Room they gather general health
information. Larry enjoys this part, it starts the warm feeling in him, the warmth of
security, that dedicated others will see to his needs. The nurse logs information
into a computer as Larry sits, crossing and uncrossing his legs, in a straightback
chair. Larry describes in detail what he feels now; agitated, unable to be still,
hard time breathing, heart racing. He says he is not allergic to any medication.
He tells the nurse he is not an addict.
Larry prefers to go the Emergency Room around 11 on Wednesday night. Going
at night adds seriousness to his problem. It can’t wait till morning, yet he’ll still
receive enough sleep to wake up refreshed.
Another nurse leads Larry to the next station of the Emergency Room. She says
they will do an EKG. Larry tells the nurse he can’t lie down, too nervous. The
nurse has him sit on the edge of the cushioned table. She attaches the stickies
to Larry’s chest, his stomach, his side. The stickies are round and different
colors. He always forgets to peel some off when he gets home. He’ll find them in
the morning when he takes a shower, the soap and hot water making them
easier to remove.
Wednesday night has become Larry’s favorite night. Hump day, people call it at
the office. Only two more days to go, they say. Larry nods in agreement, but
thinks about the Emergency Room and how after his visit he can face more than
just two days.
Finally, Larry follows another nurse to the last station, a room of Larry’s own. The
nurse gets his blood pressure and leaves a plastic jug on the counter. Whenever
you can go, she tells him.
The doctor comes next. The doctor smiles, reassures Larry everything is OK.
Nothing to the EKG. The doctor asks Larry to lay down and Larry corrects him,
laughing. Lie down is actually proper grammar, Larry says. He’s found that all
doctors say lay down instead of lie down. Larry points out their error as a kind of
joke, to let the doctor know he is relaxing. The doctor says they will give Larry a
sedative, something mild to calm him. A nurse administers the sedative, finding
a vein quickly; Larry has cooperative veins. The nurse puts the bag on the stand
and Larry can see liquid drip down the thin tube toward his arm. The nurse
attaches a heart monitor to Larry’s finger and then leaves, promising to check on
him soon. Larry knows the nurse will return. They always do. The sedative makes
him tired, not as if he’s been doing hard labor, more like a he’s been driving for
14 hours straight kind of tired. Larry lies back on the cushioned table in his
private room and listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor. Tomorrow, he
knows, will be a good day.
fiction by Tommy Jenkins
Larry loves the Emergency Room. Wednesday night is his Emergency Room
night. He drives in the darkness, the lights of strip malls sliding by, soft rock
music the only thing slicing the interior quiet of the car, seeking out a new
Emergency Room. Sometimes he travels a county, two counties over from his
house.
Emergency Rooms shine an angelic white; they are really what a church should
look like. The tile floors are smooth and they reflect the overhead fluorescent
lights, giving them a glow like the floors on commercials for pine scented
cleaners. When Larry walks the Emergency Room floor he can feel the reflected
light against his face and imagines how it must cast luminescence around his
head, a halo of health.
By now, Larry knows the actions and key words for quick service. Act nervous:
plenty of tics, arms jerks, head bobs. Act like you can hardly stand still: rock from
one foot to the other, walk in little circles. Mention chest pain, shortness of
breath. The desk lady is patient and asks simple questions: name, address,
phone number. She speaks in calm tones as Larry steps a few feet away,
comes back, rubs his jittery arms. She asks about insurance and because of his
new job, Larry has insurance. He makes sure to pick at his wallet several times
to get it loose from his back pocket and then finds the magic card inside.
That first Wednesday, the first Emergency Room night, Larry had an authentic
panic attack. Flipping channels on the TV, thinking about things to do at his
office, more of this new city he needed to learn, remembering that he hadn’t
remembered to call his dad back, dreading a weekend trip to visit a friend that
he’d agreed to months ago, every channel he rested on people acting serious,
crying, sighing, eyes narrowing in anger, Larry’s chest tightened and his breath
got more and more shallow, like his lungs would only allow a small puff at a time.
He couldn’t be still. He walked the den, the bedroom, got his car keys thinking a
drive, some music, would calm him. At traffic lights he would bang on the
steering wheel, urging the thirty seconds between red and green to move faster,
faster. At 44, Larry thought about a heart attack.
At the first station in the Emergency Room they gather general health
information. Larry enjoys this part, it starts the warm feeling in him, the warmth of
security, that dedicated others will see to his needs. The nurse logs information
into a computer as Larry sits, crossing and uncrossing his legs, in a straightback
chair. Larry describes in detail what he feels now; agitated, unable to be still,
hard time breathing, heart racing. He says he is not allergic to any medication.
He tells the nurse he is not an addict.
Larry prefers to go the Emergency Room around 11 on Wednesday night. Going
at night adds seriousness to his problem. It can’t wait till morning, yet he’ll still
receive enough sleep to wake up refreshed.
Another nurse leads Larry to the next station of the Emergency Room. She says
they will do an EKG. Larry tells the nurse he can’t lie down, too nervous. The
nurse has him sit on the edge of the cushioned table. She attaches the stickies
to Larry’s chest, his stomach, his side. The stickies are round and different
colors. He always forgets to peel some off when he gets home. He’ll find them in
the morning when he takes a shower, the soap and hot water making them
easier to remove.
Wednesday night has become Larry’s favorite night. Hump day, people call it at
the office. Only two more days to go, they say. Larry nods in agreement, but
thinks about the Emergency Room and how after his visit he can face more than
just two days.
Finally, Larry follows another nurse to the last station, a room of Larry’s own. The
nurse gets his blood pressure and leaves a plastic jug on the counter. Whenever
you can go, she tells him.
The doctor comes next. The doctor smiles, reassures Larry everything is OK.
Nothing to the EKG. The doctor asks Larry to lay down and Larry corrects him,
laughing. Lie down is actually proper grammar, Larry says. He’s found that all
doctors say lay down instead of lie down. Larry points out their error as a kind of
joke, to let the doctor know he is relaxing. The doctor says they will give Larry a
sedative, something mild to calm him. A nurse administers the sedative, finding
a vein quickly; Larry has cooperative veins. The nurse puts the bag on the stand
and Larry can see liquid drip down the thin tube toward his arm. The nurse
attaches a heart monitor to Larry’s finger and then leaves, promising to check on
him soon. Larry knows the nurse will return. They always do. The sedative makes
him tired, not as if he’s been doing hard labor, more like a he’s been driving for
14 hours straight kind of tired. Larry lies back on the cushioned table in his
private room and listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor. Tomorrow, he
knows, will be a good day.
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