Sunday, August 29, 2010


Okay, Nate, you know how I'm dramatic and whatnot? I see you reading my next announcement and going, "Oh my gosh, someone sedate the crazy, crazy girl." 
I know I have a flair for the dramatic. I am totally cool with that, though.
However, I just got out of hospital probably an hour ago.
And no, it wasn't for the Lucy altercation whereby my hand collided with a gorgeous dog's teeth as we played piggy in the middle and then I fainted from blood loss/not eating/running around crazily.

It is 6pm. I am talking to Kathryn, and I am finding it hard to breathe.
The life of an asthmatic is commonly this. But usually it can be cured with a quick puff of Ventolin and a glass of water.
I have no Ventolin. The night previously, I had also experienced what I am going to refer to as an attack. Primarily because it involved no breathing, tears down cheeks, constant coughing and Nick pressing his Ventolin at me saying, Keep it with you.
I am wheezy at 6pm.The phone lies next to me, and I consider it. I cannot think of what to do to breathe again. It is getting increasingly difficult and I can feel myself stressing. So I dial the number of a random hospital, they connect me to 13 HEALTH, and I am connected with a nurse."What's the matter?" she asks me.
I say, "I can't breathe properly. I have asthma, the cold's triggered it. I can't take a full breath and everything feels tight."
Immediately, she tells me to go to the hospital. She says she can hear in my voice how bad I am at this stage.
I don't like hospitals. After spending ample amounts of time in hospital in years 10 and 11, I fear them. They seem to be filled with people questioning you because they don't believe you're a virgin and they don't appreciate your comments regarding pregnancy. "Well, I'm not sure how it works, but I'm fairly sure I'm not good enough for an immaculate conception." I tell Kathryn, and Kathryn tells me to go, though to remember to breathe and to be safe.

Knocking on Chris's door is harder than it should be, because he doesn't answer. When he does, and sees my tearstained face, he panics. "Hospital? Are you okay?"
"I can't breathe."
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
"I don't know," I say, "I'm scared."
"Take a taxi. Use my card. Text me the minute you get there."
I do this, except for texting him, because I am immediately taken into consultation. I am classed as a level 3:
People who need to have treatment within 30 minutes are called potentially life threatening patients.
People in this group suffer from severe illness, bleed heavily from cuts, have major fractures or may be dehydrated.
In my case, I cannot breathe properly, and the triage nurse is quite concerned.
I am ushered to a seat, and a nurse named Joel comes over. He asks a few questions, and I try my hardest to look 18 and not like I'd been scared witless at hospital or at my lack of breathing. I am hooked up to a nebuliser; the last time I'd used one of those was when I was in year 8. It comes back like clockwork, though I have never experienced jitters from them.
"It's normal," says Joel, noticing my fingers struggling to turn the page in my novel, and the page flaps noisily. "I get it too." My chest is also spasming.
A doctor named David enters. Here, it is clear that God watches over me to the tiniest details. David looked like a cross between David Tennant and JD, and was wearing JD-blue scrubs. He wore Converses, low tops, and he was English. Pretty much the best doctor there could have been.
He tells Joel to give me pills, and asks me what's happening. I explain again - and he nods. "We'll give a few rounds of the nebuliser, okay?"

Hospital is odd when you read quickly. I finish my novel and start it again as I sit there. Three nebulising rounds in, and prednisone swallowed, I am spasming like never before. Joel ushers me to the waiting room so they can give me time to see if I feel better.
I decide to call Dad and Chris. It's a little hard to stand, though, because I look like I'm having seizures.
30 minutes later, I am back in my chair, and sent home with a puffer and a spacer. David makes me promise that if I get worse, I will come back. "I promise I will come back if I get sick like before." He writes me a script for prednisone - I later cannot properly pronounce this word to Dad - and sends me on my way.

So that was an eventful evening. The two cabbies who took me there and back were absolutely beautiful guys, so concerned about me. "You are okay, right? Where's your parents? Are you living by yourself? Your brother, then, he is meeting you? No? But you're his sister, he can sleep later."
I personally felt sorry for Chris, but it was okay.

I also showed David my Lucy Altercation Love Bite, and he approved. "You've done fine. You cleaned it, you've put antiseptic on it, and you've covered it. It's very well done." I feel a small sense of pride.He also cleared me from tetanus shots, thank goodness, because apparently it's mandatory to get it done at school age 16. I am so glad I blocked that memory out.

I need sleep. I am still spasming though. Hopefully this stops....G'night and I am so very sorry at this being a) weirdly written, b) so lethargic like myself, and c) not involving much excitement. Though there was a guy screaming profanities at the top of his lungs. He was interesting.

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