Spoiler: I’m still alive, or having a nice afterlife.

It was an ordinary work-at-home morning. Woke up, wandered into the next room, logged into the company system and pushed buttons for a while, like George Jetson. At 10:30 or so, I had an inspiration and came back to the bedroom to whack off. An ordinary work-at-home morning.

For all that effort I deserved breakfast, so I zapped a sack of mixed vegetables and fried some fake-chicken, which mixed together with mustard on top is a fine way to start the day, usually. Thinking back, maybe the vegetables hadn't been fully microwaved. I get impatient sometimes, and don't wait for the ding.

Then I went back to work, which was not as boring as this article so far, but pretty damn boring until the heartburn came. Too much mustard and fake-spicy chicken, right? I plop-plop fizz-fizzed two generic Alka-Seltzer into my fabulous ‘Kindly fuck right off’ mug, and when the heartburn persisted I took two more Alkas.

By mid-afternoon I was nauseous, then barfing, then my stomach began hurting, then hurting a lot, like I’d eaten jacks and thumbtacks instead of fake-meat and veggies. By late afternoon the pain was stabbing ferociously, getting worse, and if it got as much worse in the next half hour as it had gotten worse in the past half hour, I wouldn’t be able to drive myself to the emergency room.

Drive now, or ambulance later — or do nothing and hope the pain subsides? Spent a few minutes arguing with myself, but my wife told me to go to the ER, so I gave the cat a big bowl of food because if I’m admitted to the hospital, she’s on her own.

The ER would be expensive, and my insurance is about half a sham — there’s no way it would pay for an ambulance, so I drove, and man, that was terrifying. Used my signals and stayed only ten mph over the speed limit, because if I’d been pulled over I thought I might die while getting my license out of my wallet.

I’d driven my wife to this same emergency room many times, including the time she never came home, so I certainly knew the way. The parking lot was full, and I knew the ER would be crowded. There were thirty miserable souls sitting in chairs, two people ahead of me in the check-in line, and since I'd last been to the ER, they’ve added signs that say, “Masks always required," and "Violence is never appropriate.” Tell it to the Marines, I thought.

When it came my turn, a woman I’ll assume was pretty — hard to tell behind the mask — asked about the coronavirus. No, I live alone and never go out, so I haven’t knowingly had contact with anyone who has COVID.

ER is a triage situation, not first come first served, so when she got to the very last and least important question — “What seems to be the problem today?” — I said I suspected a burst appendix, and re-used that line about eating jacks and thumbtacks. She asked what jacks are, and I couldn’t explain the concept.

I do not remember greater physical pain than that moment. It was coming in waves worse than kidney stones, then simply ‘very painful’, then barely bearable again. The lady said my wait would be at least an hour.

Someone took my blood pressure, and snapped a blood-oxygen clamp on my middle finger. Someone else brought a small plastic band, and read what was printed on it: “Roy A Holland,” and my birthday. "Is that correct?" he asked. The birthday was correct, and I'm Holland, but my name’s Doug, not Roy.

I was in or near delirium, and thought he’d misspoken or I’d hallucinated. Guess I said ‘yes’, so he slipped the plastic band around my wrist. Hadn’t brought my reading glasses, so everything up close was out of focus. I hobbled to a chair to wait, then squinted and held my arm at various distances until I could make out the writing, and yup, the plastic band lied and said my name was Roy. Well, sitting in the chair hurt less than standing hurt less than walking, so I became Roy.

Then an hour and a half crawled slowly past. I wasn’t crying but the pain was really quite insistent, and my eyes were watering. Also I was shivering like a drunk with the shakes, and from a great distance my logical brain explained that the shivers must mean I had a fever. Then I fell asleep or passed out, until I heard a staffer call Roy’s name. She didn't say 'Holland', just, "Roy?".

I groggily remembered being Roy, but couldn’t remember how to speak until she said not-my-name a second time. "Roy?"

Raising my hand like second grade, I said, “I can be Roy,” and she looked annoyed, like she thought I was joking. When I explained that they input my name wrong, she scolded me.

“You should’ve said something when you checked in.” I couldn’t find an answer but filed her advice away in case I survived this time and there’s a next time. She snipped off Roy’s plastic band, and wouldn’t take me back to see a doctor until a more accurate plastic band had been created, so I waited while she called the runner-up’s name and escorted someone else back.

Maybe two, maybe ten minutes later, someone else slipped a new plastic band around my wrist, and very slowly recited my name and date-of-birth. I mumbled “That’s me I think,” and he led me to one of the doctor-rooms. I’d reached my final destination! Me saying 'burst appendix' might've helped, because several people who'd been there longer than me were still waiting.

The take-me-back guy asked a few questions, like what had I eaten and when, and how’s the pain on a scale of one to ten? From so many ER visits and hospital stays with my wife, trust me, they’re fascinated with that pain scale of 1-10, but my answer surprised me: 8. A few minutes earlier I would’ve said 9-point-five.

Then he vanished, and later a baby-faced doctor came in. He said, “How ya doin’ tonight, Roy?” and I didn’t correct him. He asked lots of questions, and I knew most of the answers. By then the pain had rolled back to 6 — quite painful, but not terrifying — but the doc didn’t ask me to rate it on the scale. He said he’d order a bunch of tests, and a CT scan, and drugs for the pain, and then he stepped out of the room.

He’d listed four or five tests, so the cost might be merely hundreds, maybe a thousand non-existent dollars, or more. Whatever the price it felt like a waste of money, because the symptoms were subsiding, and while I waited for someone to come in and suck blood from my arm and someone else to wheel me down the hall for a CT scan, the pain faded further. I stood up and did a few touch-your-toes exercises and twisty-turnies, but no matter how I bent myself it didn't make me wince.

Instead of waiting for the phlebotomist, I opened the door and walked back into the waiting room. All the chairs were taken, so I leaned against a wall, and did a few more touch-my-toes. Still very nearly painless, but to be safe, I decided to stay in the ER for another half an hour.

Ten minutes later the same doctor came out, and asked, "Roy, what the hell?" I said I felt fine, felt like dancing, but he said the lack of pain could be psychosomatic. That's something I’d never heard of, and the next morning Google’s never heard of it either, so I think the doctor was full of shit. I touched my toes again, and he said “My medical advice is blah blah blah,” but I said no thanks, and after waiting a little longer, drove home with only minimal and occasional pain.

Then I typed all the above, and slept straight through the night without even any pee awakenings, which hasn’t happened since the 1990s. Lesson learned: No matter what, don't go to the ER — just wait and hope for the pain to go away, and it probably will.

Also, wait for the microwave to ding (but I’ve thrown away twenty dollars worth of frozen veggies and fake-chicken).

So that was my evening with Roy. Now it’s the next morning and I’m still mostly painless, but exhausted. Yesterday’s going to be expensive, plus probably a surcharge for leaving against doctor’s orders. It’s good to be alive, though, and mostly painless.

12/9/2021