I'm home. I'm going to eat some Stouffer's mac and cheese and then pass the fuck out.
The final outcome of my ER visit is inconclusive. The hiccups were more or less taken care of by a shot of Thorazine, a dose of Ativan, and two doses of Baclofen. That said, the hiccups were only largely quelled, not stopped. I'm so tired, I'll be able to sleep through the current level of hiccups.
Like last time. I was not given a bed or room upon arrival in the ER. It was not a crowded shit show like in November, but there were two colorful characters in there with me. The first was a scruffy-looking white guy who was asleep in the waiting area's La-Z-Boy recliner, and he snored loudly. In fact, nothing could awaken him, not even the noisy floor buffer that was being used around his carcass. He turned out to be schizoaffective and when he awoke he was adamant about seeing a psychiatrist for med to "quiet the voices in my head." That's all well and good, but he was repeatedly told that his psychiatrist was out for a week, and that the drugs he requested could not be given to him so he would have to leave. He robotically repeated his request for drugs and a psychiatrist, and they eventually got him a psychiatrist who explained that he could not hand him the requested drugs. The schizoaffective guy then refused to leave until he got his way, so the nurses called over the in-ER security guy looked like a 6'3" 330-pound answer to Oddjob, and this Hispanic Harold Sakata lookalike was having none of it. He sternly informed the guy that if he did not leave, as he had his discharge papers, in no uncertain terms it would be time for a beatdown. "You pull this shit every day and I'm sick of it," said Oddjob, and the patient quickly got himself together and was escorted out.
The other character was a tall, skinny, ultra-ghetto-acting black dude in his early twenties who had just gotten out of jail, gone to a party, and had been shot i n the leg. He called the police, only to himself end up in handcuffs and ankle shackles. Nearly every word out of his mouth was the foulest of profanities, and when not channeling Samuel L. Jackson, he kept demanding a cigarette and stating "I kill people." He also relentlessly and futilely hit on a buxom Latina nurse, who was clearly amused at his failing attempts at getting into her pants. After an hour or so of his entertaining antics, the bored cops finally led him away, presumably back to the jug.
When I finally got a room to myself for about two hours, I soon got a roomie in the form of a Jamaican man a little older than me, and he was accompanied by his wife and daughter. He had been super-constipated for days, plus his prostate issues prevented him from peeing. Solutions to the pee problem were tried for hours, until it was decided to catheterize his penis. I don't think I have to tell you that the poor bastard howled and cried like the damned, but nothing was working. The screams were such that I felt my own manhood shrivel like a spider on a hot stove, and suck itself up into my torso. Even the female nurses who were tending to him made note of how all of this was even getting to them. I had to excuse myself from the room, and act that prompted the nurses to kick his family out. I don't know about you, but I would not want my wife and daughter in the room while a catheter was being s schlamped up my John Thomas.
Anyway, I am finally home after nearly 13 hours in the ER, and I can't wait to succumb to sheer exhaustion.
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