Thursday, January 23, 2020

The cart in the ER waiting room is out of sandwiches. They seemed to have had plenty when they arrived, but I got called away so nurses could draw my blood for a fourth time. I've been X-rayed, scanned, had a couple of people listen to my heart and lungs, and had two ECGs since this morning. The doctor has scolded me: "When your chest feels like that, don't wait a week for an appointment. Head right to the hospital." I've been in and out of offices and exam rooms for the past eight hours. It looks like they'll keep me overnight. Maybe by then they'll have a better idea what's happening, though they don't think it was a heart attack. The man to my left is saying evening prayers under his breath, reading the texts from his phone. To my right, a doctor barks at an older couple: "I know you've been here since ten, but I'm running to a patient who is between life and death. You will wait." I sit here, dozing off and on, listening for my name and to the conversations in many languages that swirl around me.