Saturday night, following my doctor's orders, my husband took me to the Cedars ER to get an ultrasound study of my left leg, which had turned purple and blue overnight. My doctor wanted to make sure I wasn't harboring a blood clot.
We arrived at the ER at a quarter to eight. Stepping into the vestibule, we were greeted by a gracious volunteer named Kimber. The lobby was more than half filled with people--some standing, some sitting, many wearing masks that covered their mouths and noses. To protect them against swine flu, Kimber explained when I asked.
"Do you think we need masks?" I asked.
She smiled. "I don't. But you can get some, if you're worried."
I decided I wasn't.
My husband and I found seats in the lobby. We had come prepared for a long wait (Cedars' ER, and probably most ERs, are not known for in-and-out service). He read a Talmudic tract. I propped my injured leg on a vacant seat and found where I'd left off in the book I'd brought, somewhere in the third chapter of Carl Hiasen's Sick Puppy. It was my first Hiasen (I know, I know), and I can see why he's so popular with critics and readers. A little Elmer Leonard, I think, with a backdrop that's unique to South Florida.
"Krich," an official sounding voice called.
I was impressed. I had been waiting only fifteen minutes. I showed my ID and was ushered into a small cubicle where a nurse took my vitals and sent me back the lobby to wait again.
A black man slouched two seats away was eying my husband. "How are you with God?"
My husband put down his text. "Sorry? I don't know what you mean."
"Well, you're a Jew, right?"
I'm pretty sure it was the yarmulke, and not the tract, that led to this pronouncement.
"That's right."
"I'm a follower of Louis Farrakhan."
That put me on guard.
"Why can't I be a Jew, can you tell me that?" the man asked.
"No reason," my husband said. "You can convert, if you want to. Although Judaism isn't into proseletzying."
"Sammy Davis was a Jew."
"Right."
"Why do you call us niggers?" Belligerent, now.
"We don't."
"What about you?" He had turned to me. "Are you with God?"
I told him I was.
"I've never seen a Jewish woman, just Jewish men."
"There are as many Jewish women as there are Jewish men," my husband said.
"Lemme just show you this." The man sat up. He reached into a tote and produced a black plastic bag wrapped around what looked like books.
"Thanks," my husband said. "I'm not interested." Very polite.
"Why not?" the man demanded.
"I'm not interested," my husband repeated.
The man scowled at him. "Jews," he muttered and turned his head away from us.
A few minutes later he left to use the rest room. A nurse brought a wheel-chaired young man into the lobby. From the direction of the rest rooms I could hear the other man yelling.
"Maybe we should alert Security," I told my husband. I had noticed four or five Security staff.
"Because of me?" This from the man in the wheel chair.
"No, not at all. Because of the man who's yelling." I'm not sure he believed me.
"Krich."
Only a little after nine. Much better than we'd expected. We grabbed our things and followed another nurse down a hall, through a set of doors, and down another hall to one of the ER rooms. I changed into a gown and tried to get comfortable on the bed. A male nurse took my vitals again.
"The doctor will be with you soon," he told me.
I resumed reading Sick Puppy.
"Soon" turned out to be just that. Doctor R.D., tall and handsome and charming, examined my leg.
"I don't think you have a clot, but as long as you're here, let's do the scan."
"What about the numbness in the kneecap?" I asked.
"It'll go away."
I felt silly for having come to the ER, guilty for having phoned the doctor on Shabbat. I wondered how much of the ER fee my insurance would cover. I contemplated cancelling the scan, but what if there was a clot?
"You'll be out of here in half an hour," Dr. D assured me.
I probably would have been, if not for the urgent trauma admission and several other emergencies that took precedence. We heard repeated violent retching from a woman in a nearby room . A baby's wailing. A belligerent voice that may have belonged to the Farrakhan follower.
It was past midnight. I was increasingly dubious about the necessity for the scan. I hadn't had Advil in over six hours, so my leg ached. I couldn't find a comfortable position on the bed. I had finished the book.
"I'm going home," I told my husband. "I'm getting dressed."
"You can't."
"Why not? We're not prisoners."
At that moment the ultrasound technician wheeled his equipment into the room. I should have threatened sooner.
"Sorry about the wait," he said.
He told us he was the only ultrasound technician on duty. "I feel bad for the patients, but good about the job security."
I didn't blame him.
He applied warm gel to my leg and thigh. "No clot," he informed me when he was done.
That was good news.
Another hour went by before the handsome and still charming Dr. D signed me out. "Sorry about the long wait," he said. I could tell he meant it.
Back at home, my husband and I watched one of the shows we'd taped on our DVR and had two scoops each of Baskin-Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge.
Thanks, Mindy.
Posted by: Rochelle | October 20, 2009 at 12:09 PM
great writing. you make every day occurrences come alive! refuah sheleima.
Posted by: www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000015847145 | October 19, 2009 at 09:21 PM