Bad Times Timelion... Part 2

So we wait, with sweatshirts over our mouths and I'm a pile of worry. The wife says she is feeling dizzy, probably from the massive blood loss and the fact she is anemic anyway. People keep coming into the waiting room and I think I'm in a deleted scene from 12 Monkeys. The girl that checks people in by dismissing them, finally realizes there are a lot of sick people who are only standing and then does the other half of her job.

She comes out and says, "Oh, if you already seen a nurse you can go to the other waiting room." The coughing, sweaty, phlegmy zombies get up en masse and all the seats except for a handful of folks empty. The new group of coughing, sweaty phlegmy zombies take their spots. So, in short, even though there was this much bigger waiting room, which I later see around the corner, where you are supposed to go after seeing the nurse, this girl would rather the initial death box fill before emptying it. In essence, maximizing exposure to the few people in there for broken arms, spider bites, and excessive bleeding. Fun.

Finally we get called to see a nurse, and have to wait until he wraps up a conversation with another nurse. By the way, there was a lot of standing and chatting by the employees there. There was about as much urgency in this emergency room as NFL team up by three touchdowns with two minutes to go. If you are into sports gambling and you need a couple points to go the other way it's pure frustration, and that's what I felt.

So here's the snippet of the conversation, I hear and I loved this one... "So... yeah today is the first day in 6 days I've been able to get out of bed. No, I was doing nothing but puking and pissing out my ass." Then this guy, takes the wristband he's printed out for my wife, coughs on it, mind you he coughs enough that he wipes his hands on his scrubs, but does nothing to the wristband and steps to her arm to put it on.

"Uh-uh, buster." I step in (okay... I didn't call him buster, but my tone did), "You want to wash your hands and print out a new one."

No offence, to any of you emergency room nurses out there, and hopefully this batch was not representative of your true intelligence, but they were pretty f'ing dumb. No, more than that, the fact they get to wear scrubs is like nominating Osama Bin Laden for the Nobel peace prize, they were idiots and undeserving of any of the implied respect that scrubs connotates. I know drug reps, those vapid pretty faces that peddle flexor to doctors, who try but fail to not say the word "ain't" in their lunch meeting get to wear scrubs, but that class of idiots is brighter than these emergency room nurses. Again, sorry for those intelligent Pfizer reps I insulted that are more than just a pretty face.

The nurse gives me a screwed up scrunched up Jim Mora face, like what the f was I talking about. My wife is giving me a glare for making a little bit of a scene. I simply and vey lowly say... "Pissing out your ass..." and mimic his coughing on his hand and bracelet. I felt like Larry David. Sometimes I fear I am becoming him.

The guy gives me a "WHATEVER!" shrug and eyeroll and like a petulant 13 year old washes his hands shaking his head the entire time. Yes, I'm sorry to put you out, but I'd rather her not piss out her ass right now, Greg Focker. He manages to not cough up the black plague on the wristband this time. Then he asks my wife the same questions the check-in girl asks. Meanwhile his buddy Greg Focker number 2, is typing ernestly into a computer facing us.

So, my wife gives the same answers, the guy repeats her answers to Focker number 2 who is on the other side of the desk we are sitting at, and unless he's deaf shouldn't need them repeated, and he keeps typing vigoriously. This plays out, with Focker number 1 writing down a scrawl on a notepad in front of him too. He leaves, then turns around having forgotten to administer my wife's vital signs. He left us with one smug cough skyward and gave us a devious look like a rancher handing out smallpox blankets to native americans on the plains. Focker.

Finally, Focker number 2 looks up at us, with Focker number 1 gone, he kind of comes back to reality. I guess he was finished his World Of Warcraft task, he then asks us all the same questions we've answered twice, and were also repeated to him for his benefit. Now, he types somewhat slower. Like the others he doesn't seem all that worried about my wife's "hint of the morgue" white complexion or her immense blood loss.

In the background, I watch a vaudeville act of nurses pick up a urine sample move it a few feet put it down, and another come by pick it up, look at it blankly, move it, and then have the first nurse look for it where she left it, shrug because it's gone, and this repeats, for literally 5 minutes. I manage to stop worrying about my wife long enough to hope one of them drinks it. One time! They don't.

Finally Focker number 2, seems to get "it" when we stress to him she's been bleeding a lot... since 5 am. He looks at his watch to verify that's... that's over 12 hours. It was like for a split second he realized where he was in the real world, and we recaptured his mind from his dungeons and dragons computer game, or maybe the Internet porn readin, and finally we get some urgency. He hustles us into a room. We pass by the massive room housing the infected who have seen a nurse and they will probably just prescribe some tylenol to for their fevers.

We walk by two "security" guards who are flirting with a nurse and apparently get paid to lean over her desk all day trying to peep into the top of her scrubs. These hospital Paul Blarts have cabooses that sprawl halfway into the hallway and I watch people in wheelchairs struggle to get around the employees of the month candidates who can't be bother to move the quasi-able bodies for the disabled.

I nod at one. He looks blankly at me but sullenly like I pissed in his cornflakes. Weird... I felt like I just walked down the wrong street in Detroit.


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