When Karen finished talking to my family, I took the phone to assure them that I would be in touch once I had gotten settled in the hospital. I hung up the phone, collected my belongings and Karen and I left the apartment. Before closing and then locking the door, I gave one last glance at my beloved environment and said a silent prayer. I didn't know what was going on inside my body, but I knew that if the unnamed malady didn't claim my life, the hospital environment certainly might. I blew a kiss to my apartment and promised it I'd return. I then set the alarm, closed and locked the door, and descended the stairs to the parking lot.
Karen and I didn't talk much on our way to the hospital; besides, the walk from my apartment to Grady was only fifteen minutes. The car ride was sure to be no more than five. Before going to Grady, I asked Karen to stop by my bank's ATM machine at Georgia State University. I had received a check from my client earlier that day, and had not had an opportunity to deposit it. We made the quick pit stop at the ATM (just around the corner from Grady) and then made our way to the hospital parking lot. When we entered the emergency room, I presented the lab report my doctor had faxed to me to the gentleman sitting behind the glass partition. He took the sheet, looked it over and motioned to me to sign in using one of the forms just across from his post. I filled it out and deposited it in the designated receptacle. Now, for the wait. However, within just minutes, my name was called and I reported to one of the intake rooms. The technician took my temperature, blood pressure and asked me some basic questions. When he finished, he sent me back to the waiting room. Once again, I was called within minutes. This time, I was instructed to go to another area in the emergency room. There, other technicians asked me yet another series of questions and before I could collect my thoughts, I was being thrust upon a stretcher and wheeled to yet another area in the emergency room. Karen followed closely behind and, for the first time, I began to feel somewhat nervous. The hospital transportation personnel wheeled me to a private room. An attendant gave me one of those stylish gowns to put on, told me to get up on the bed and informed us that a nurse would be in soon. She turned quickly on her heels and bolted out the door. Karen and I were alone. The room was stark, cold and very bright. I looked around, and then I looked at Karen. I didn't know what she was thinking, but I couldn't believe I was in the damn hospital!
While I changed from my street clothes to my hospital attire, Karen and I made small talk-- commenting on everything from the furniture to the odd-looking machines in the room. Not wanting to let fear dominate our emotions, we looked for anything to distract our attention and to keep up our spirits. Soon, a nurse entered the room with a handful of stuff. She put these items--vials, bottles, unidentified packs of fluids, etc., on top of the nearby bureau. She then began rummaging through the drawers of this same bureau and took out a collection of needles, gauze pads, alcohol swabs and other ephemera. Within minutes, I was connected to an IV and all of those odd-looking machines--I was officially online! Strangely enough, the first thought to enter my mind was, "WOW! I'm really in the hospital." Being attached to all the paraphernalia made it official and, at first, it was kind of cool--that is, until the nurse inserted a catheter in my penis. For although it did not hurt, it was the weirdest sensation I had ever had in my life. And, it was somewhat uncomfortable. I couldn't help but think that there are men in the world, straight and gay, who actually enjoy this kind of penis stimilation--yikes!
Not long after I was "hooked up," a procession of doctors, residents and medical interns who, I can only imagine had been hovering outside my room like vultures waiting for the damn animal to finally die, began to descend one by one (and sometimes in small groups of two or three). Each medical professional asked what seemed to be the same questions.
"So, Mr. Knight, how are you feeling?"
"Great," I responded.
"Do you have any pain?"
"No, not at the moment," I assured them.
"Do you smoke?"
"No."
"Have you ever smoked?"
"No, never. I hate the smell of smoke."
"What about drugs? Have you ever done drugs?"
"No, never."
"Nothing?"
"Well," I admitted, "I smoked a joint in high school, but I didn't like
it. And, actually, I didn't even feel anything. Besides, it was a form of
smoking and I really hate smoke."
"What about other drugs?"
"Nope!"
I explained to them at length that I had never been interested in experimenting with pills or cocaine or any other form of hard drug. As an adolescent, most likely due to my Nana's constant insistence that my siblings and I stay away from drugs, I was too afraid to try them. Later, as a young adult, I made the conscious decision to not ingest anything that altered my state of my mind.
"What about over-the-counter drugs? Aspirin? Tylenol? Excedrin?"
"Nope, nope and nope," I said. "Occasionally I will take an aspirin,
but a bottle can remain in my medicine cabinet for up to a year."
Then they asked, "What about alcohol?"
"No sir," I responded, "except for the occasional glass of wine with dinner or one of my friend Brenda's Cinco de Mayo margaritas. I don't really like the taste of alcohol."
Well, they went on like this for what seemed like hours. At first, I remained upbeat and eager to answer their questions. The "good student" in me wanted to please the teacher. I wanted to give the doctors all the information they might need so that they could figure out quickly what was going on. I even allowed myself to think, naively I might add, that I would be able to go home the next day; or, at the very least, in two days. How wrong I was!
The doctors continued with this line of questioning, but then added a new twist. Now, they were beginning to ask me questions like: What day is it? How do you spell your name? What year is it? Who is the president (to that question, I almost answered, Donald Duck, but I thought they might wisk me off to the psyche ward)? How did you arrive at the hospital? Do you know where you are? The questions seemed ridiculous, at best. I could not believe that they were actually asking me questions like these. What the hell?!
Finally, another doctor came in and began to go through the drill once more. By this time, I had had it. I had been in that hospital emergency room for well over three hours and I was tired, very nervous, confused and completely frustrated by the line of questioning. So, this poor doctor got the gift of my rage. I opened up and, with great restraint and characteristic diplomacy, tore him a new asshole. I reminded him that my doctor had told me to come to the hospital because my kidneys were, in his words, about to shut down. "Funny," I informed him while pointing to the catheter, "I am still peeing." Next, I criticised him and his colleagues for pursuing a line of questioning that, to me, did not address the malady which landed me in the hospital in the first place, my kidneys. Then, I went up one side of him and down the other for asking questions that suggested that there might be something wrong with my brain. "My mind is strong," I told him. "It's my kindeys, damn it, not my brain!"
Patiently, he listened to me rant. When I finished, and it was clear that I had collected myself, the doctor began to describe why that line of questioning was important. He told me that often, when a patient presents with the kind of imminent kindey failure that he and his colleagues saw in me, it is because the patient has abused some kind of drug and/or alcohol. He went on to explain that other indicators in my lab report (low potassium levels, high white blood cell count, etc.) suggested a body in crisis. Finally, he pointed out that a normal creatinine (the waste product created by our muscles) level should not be more than 1.2. Mine was 15.7! Given this scenario, all the doctors who saw and talked to me that evening believed, and rightly so, that I was on the verge of imploding. Easily, he told me, I could have been hallucinating or, worse, about to pass out. The fact that I was so alert and seemingly "well," literally stunned them. This would not be the first time that my body would mezmerize the doctors and me--as over the course of the next two days, doctors would call me an enigma. Before he left my side, this doctor said to me, "Mr. Knight, we know it's not your brain. However, no part of the body operates in isolation. You may not know it, you may not even feel it, but your body is in crisis and, at least for now, your kidneys seem to be the main target. So, please bear with us while we try to figure out what is going on and what is making your body unhappy. We promise to try to solve this puzzle as soon as we can and get you home. Until then, you will be here and we will work hard to get your body back on track." Something about the way he spoke and gently "put me in my place" reassured me.
By now it was just after midnight. Karen was fading fast, so I suggested that she go home and get some rest. She promised that she would see me the next day after work and gave me a kiss on my cheek. Up until that moment Karen had always been a good friend--the best. Almost instantaneously, though, she became the big sister I never had and my surrogate mother. I felt very lucky. Karen left and I was all alone. I tried to meditate on my situation, but I was too tired. A nurse came in and told me that they were looking for a room for me and that until one was found, I would remain in the emergency area. One of the last things I remember before dozing off was the bright light in the room, it was annoying. On her way out, the nurse asked, almost intuitively, if I wanted her to turn off the light. I said, "Yes, please!" and she left. After a long, stressful and tedious evening, I finally was able to take a nap.
Next Week: On Being an Emigma: Kidney Failure, Cancer and Lucky Friday the Thirteenth.
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