As I became nauseated, I realized now is the time to get this checked out. In the midst of all the political talk, I asked my cousin to drive me to the minor injury clinic. Two days prior, a classmate of ours had died of a brain tumor, and I had heard reports on ovarian cancer recently, so I was in a paranoid state. I knew it probably was “nothing,” but had been having pain and pressure in that area off and on for five years.

“Round muscles of the uterus” one doctor had announced when I complained during pregnancy of a sharp knifing pain that took my breath away (and that was more intense than labor contractions.) “After Pains! Breastfeeding Cramps! Menstrual Cramps! Mittelschmerz!” another doctor proclaimed in succession after I had given birth, depending when and how I had described the sensation. The timing and “quality” of pain varied, and didn’t track with my menstrual cycle, eating habits, exercise, or anything obvious.

I was nervous about bringing up my concern. The check-in lady at the minor injury clinic eyed me skeptically and immediately grabbed a paper from a large pile, and sighed. The paper read “You have been evaluated and found to have a complaint which can be addressed at a later date” and went on to provide the phone number for Adult Medicine. She wrote my complaint on that paper, pointed to the waiting area, mumbled hoarsely, “The nurse will call you to be evaluated,” and coughed loudly.

I sat. I watched the check-in lady blow her nose, hobble over to a cabinet drunkenly, hork into a Kleenex, and return to her desk.

Thank goodness my cousin stayed with me. She chatted about all her experiences at the minor injury clinic. She made fun of the system. She assured me everything would be fine. She told me to be the squeaky wheel so I could get the ultrasound I wanted to ensure “nothing” was there.

The evaluation nurse was amazing. She explained that she had an ovarian cyst removed several years ago, and that it wasn’t just “nothing.” She assured me to be more confident about voicing my concerns and referred me to the ER.

Now I had a slip of paper with my vitals, the information about “your concern is wimpy” and a note saying “go to ER.”

“Give them this” and “Good luck!” the evaluation nurse told me cheerfully.

When we arrived at the ER, there were perhaps ten people in the waiting room, but a box with about twenty registration slips. My cousin and I sat down against the window.

Suddenly the loudspeaker announced, “Code Blue in ER Parking Lot” and medical personnel began to stream out of every door.

“This is like ER!” My cousin smiled excitedly and cautiously.

We turned around to witness a bunch of people attempting to get a man out of the front passenger’s seat of his car. They started CPR on the ground. 70% of the personnel were watching, but most had equipment ready or were pounding his chest. Several had a gurney waiting. A couple had an oxygen tank. He started breathing again!

A woman sitting next to us announced, “I’ve been here since 3:00am!” My cousin looked at her watch: 12:48pm. “I am filled with coffee” and then she paused. “heeheeheeheehee” she laughed shrilly.

She pointed at my ring. “How long you been married?”

“Five years”

“Oh, I win!” pause. “heeheeheeheehee” pause. “I’ve been married for eight!”

We learned that she was younger than us. Had a cat and two dogs. Had a sister with several kids, but not by her husband. She had no kids. Didn’t plan on it. Her husband had some blood disorder. He weighed 450 pounds. She had a tattoo, did we? She wanted to know everything about us, but my cousin and I weren’t too willing to share. We wanted to be polite, but the shrill laughter and probing questions were uncomfortable.

“You guys are skinny and pretty.” pause. “heeheeheeheehee” pause. “I am really fat.”

Awkward silence. Weak smiles all around.

Bless her for making conversation, but my cousin and I were discomfited by our coffee-enhanced company. When I got up for triage, she changed her seat to sit next to my cousin. She immediately moved to her original seat when I came back, but when I was called for the second evaluation, I told my cousin she could leave to get home to her family. The pleading eyes had said it all.

I bid goodbye to my cousin, and “good luck” to the dear woman who desperately wanted to talk and had waited far too long for word on her hubby.

After another evaluation, I was lead through a labyrinth of colored wings and rooms to reach “Green 6,” my home for the next several hours. I played Solitaire on my phone for most of the day, regretting that I had taken the book out of my purse before leaving for the event that morning.

Bathroom break. Paperwork to charge me $50 for the admit. Bathroom break. Talk to doctor. Bathroom break. Blood drawn. Bathroom Break.

“Oh, you are going to have an ultrasound; it needs to be on a full bladder!”

I wish they had caught me right before going to the bathroom instead of announcing my mistake as I was passing by the nurse’s station on the way back to my room. The nurse gave me a full pitcher of ice water. A half hour later, I had a full-bladder and was shaking from the cold.

The tech who wheeled me to the ultrasound was paged to bring someone down to the morgue. He told me it was the guy who had coded in the parking lot. “They told him to take an ambulance, but he insisted on driving himself,” the tech explained. It was a heart attack.

I sat in the hallway waiting for the ultrasound. I had on the requisite dowdy hospital gown, plus a blanket on my lap. I was shivering and my hair that had been perfectly coiffed was now sticking up all over.

The ultrasound was both comforting and perplexing: no tumors or anything scary on the left side, but also no cyst or easily explainable cause for the pain. More puzzling was that a very large cyst was visible on the right side. I had no pain on the right side.

So I was discharged with orders to get an appointment with my ob/gyn.

I phoned Husband to come pick me up. “Ummmm. We have issues,” was his response. The Cat had jumped off the back of the sofa and hurt his arm.

Back to the Minor Injury Clinic!

In Husband’s haste, he hadn’t brought Spliggle’s diaper bag, a bottle, or toys. Fortunately, I had some supplies in the van, but no milk. I used some of the Cat’s soy milk and put it in a sippy cup for Spliggle.

My cousin called to check in. She was stunned to hear about the Cat and that we were back in the clinic. “No way” she repeated between horrified giggles.

The same evaluation nurse was there, clearly surprised to see me again, this time with the whole family. A few hours, X-rays, and evaluations later, the Cat was deemed to have a sprained wrist.

The Cat was very scared, but tried hard to be cooperative. He was reluctant to have anyone touch his arm and refused to point out the location of the most pain. But he let the X-ray tech position him and was happily examining the “Exit” signs, arrows, and plastic plants around the waiting room. He was nervous and panicked when asked questions, but all in all did very well.

Finally, two hours past Spliggle’s bedtime, one hour past the Cat’s, we had collected food from three different fast food restaurants to satisfy our appetites. Del Taco fish tacos for me (with lime, of course,) In N Out “burgler” and fries for the Cat, and KFC for Husband. (Spliggle got my fries.)

It was the first food I had tasted in nearly twelve hours, and boy it felt good. It felt even better to take off the skirt and high-heels!