Wednesday, August 28, 2013
16 year old kid in an Emergency Room: Phenol Acidosis.
By Mark William Darus.
Disturbed from sound sleep as my phone rang out at
2:46 PM yesterday and eventually hearing the “BEEP-BEEP-BEEP” of a message left. Checking the Sender: RESTRICTED displayed, so I disregarded it thinking yet another collection coming to catch me.
I attempted to drift back to a dream disturbed about my saving Milla Jovovich from the undead and her being extremely grateful for my success. Yeah, sort of hooked on the Resident Evil movie series, seen all five films and love them and apparently they’ve crept into my personal mind-movies, IE, dreams.
My dogs began to bark wildly, I heard of shots outside the house, presumably small arms, and I said: “SHIT! Guess I’m up early.”
Letting the dogs outside, I called my battered phones voice mail.
A friend I’ll call Tarriza voice sounded panicked and urgent. Her tone ran the gambit of emotional display. Trying to be calm and clear, yet losing the battle in the end as her lips must’ve curled downward, mind trying to express, finding a cut-off.
Quickly calling the dogs back inside while I heard…
“Mark, my child’s in the hospital. I got a call from her school, took her to the ER when their infirmaries diagnostics didn’t run high enough on her blood sugar readings…” a female voice raced on to the point the English language turned to word-soup and complete gibberish. “I-I, I’m not sure. She’s, we’re, not sure. They think Phenol Acidosis, readings at 660, andidon’tknowwhatto makeof this.”
Frankly, the only time in my life I ever dressed faster and left a place was when I was about 16 years of age and lost my virginity. Her father had come home from work sick, we heard his keys at the door and leapt from a window smiling and naked, clothes soon following behind me.
I left my house with a sense of profound urgency after tossing my camera bag over my shoulder. I never leave home without it, you know. My camera is my weapon, after all. How else can one fight so many that find our world so ugly and disgusting and shove in their faces a beauty their eyes fail to see mostly by sincere lack of choice on their part?
I close my gate behind me, enter my Trailblazer and head to ‘The Morning Store’. I will always call this place on West fourteenth street this as for over 20 years I got coffee there suffering the work of day shifters.
“Hey, Mark! How’s it going?” Mike says happily as like he has each and every day for the years he’s he’d worked there.
“Doing good, man! Heading to the Hospital to see someone and her kid in the ER, then heading to work,” I said flatly, yet jovially in return.
“We might be runnin’ low, man,” he said, and adding to a customer, “No ma’am, I told you before we do not accept blow jobs for bottles of MD20/20. Not sure who told you we did, but we don’t. Sorry.”
Chuckling aloud, I said, “I got ya back, brother!” after putting a quarter cup of ice in my 13 year old Goshen Dairy coffee cup with a British Petroleum Green lid. Killing the mega urn, I added some half and half and goo-gobs of sugar to my ‘three jobs old cup’ as I removed the huge filter container, emptying it’s spent contents and walked to the deli counter to gather up and place a new mound of grounds into it.
Conversation hitting me from areas around me.
“Daddy, can I have a strawberry Icee?” the voice of young girl excitedly asks.
“Shit, bitch! I told ya I’d be home when I get home!” a man speaks into a tiny little Star Trek like communicator. Agitated like a washing machine way too imbalanced, he adds, “I’m gonna beat you into place if ya ain’t careful!”
“Please, for the last time! No BLOWJOBS FOR WINE! Okay,” Mikes pleading voice falls on the deaf ears of a woman wearing a Winger concert T-shirt, cut-off jeans, sporting seriously trashed hair going from spiked hues of blond, blue, pink to outright mange on her left side as feral strands of brunette locks were much longer, though choppy. Curious about her, , I set the filter holder down by its wanting mate and stepped toward this woman. I had to get closer to her, perhaps my predators instinct taking over my senses as this woman was so obviously vulnerable. Call it what you will: I had to smell her. Close proximity to her would give me her sense of desire, addiction, depression, her depth of need to maintain an even-flow in her being.
My Verizon chirping like mad again, distracting me like Jack the Ripper in a field of Stepford Wives, cleaving a moment in two.
Bringing me back to things more important.
Getting my coffee being first and foremost. Let’s be serious for a moment: How many of us don’t need to satisfy our fixes before beginning anything in earnest? Leveling out as we enter our days with presumed clear thinking, we have a ritual we must follow less all entire days attempts fail and shoot sideways.
A woman babbling about wine and BJ’s drones on as I do a Disco Bump from my hip to hers sending her sideways. Rip-offs of Calvin Kleins Obsession, Jen Anistons fragrance mixed with body funk and sweat met my nostrils as well as a weak electrical taste (like that of the oil, steel and voltage smell of a Dodgem car amusement ride coursing across my tongue. “Here’s my 1.50, Mike. Want me to call the cops on her?”
“Nah, it’s cool. She just split.” Taking my cash, he added; “ Godspeed at the Hospital, Brother!”
Firing up my engine, taking sip of my days equalizer, setting mug down and raising an L&M to lip with my right as my left lights my blue BIC. Inhaling deeply as flame and tobacco meet gloriously, filling lungs with bad things unhealthy. Taking another swig coffee as I exhale.
Standing now yet sitting.
Hospital time down the road of a bright new day of life.
Driving down West Fourteenth street toward the roundabout, getting stopped at two red lights, I glanced to the drivers beside me. A man appeared to be arguing with someone on a cell, his right hand holding a phone to her ear solidly pressed while his left thrashed about wildly, sometimes beating on the steering wheel of his Black Range Rover, while a weary eyes brunette mother dazedly stared forward as her precious cargo of three small youths seemed to raging on.
In The Parking Lot of Desperate Hope: Cleveland Metro General Hospital, Scranton Road, Cleveland Ohio, 44109. USA
I pull my vehicle into its multileveled domain. Taking a ticket from an object thinking, don’t we all wish to bash to pieces with many hits from a Louisville Slugger for the sheer desire to simply do so freely? Knowing this jungle land too well, I find a spot not near anyone. Most around this land don’t carry insurance. Call me cautious, I was in the Evil Insurance Industry for over ten years. I know too well how those predators work.
Exiting to concrete after disabling my Motorola Motonav GPS and its BlueTooth, I take several steps and suck in surroundings.
There is an ambulances siren screaming nearby as a LifeFlight Helicopter’s blades pierce the sky above.
A lady I can only see as shadow in the garage talks about Jeremy’s excruciating anal fissures as another speaks about the latest Android to come out in a few months and how if Annie doesn’t die, she’ll have to have it!
Leaving the garage and heading toward Scranton Rd I pass people in various states of existence, flesh hanging draped loosely over bone, eyes receding deep into their sockets. Some asking for smokes, others speaking like Muhammad Alles (sp?) last interview incomprehensible as they shuffle about like zombies in a here and now.
Walking up to Metro ER’s SERIOUSLY HEAVY BULLET PROOF, DAMN NEAR NUKE PROOF, yet worthless against water as it’s flooded a few times over the last four years after a heavy rain. Yeah! Who doesn’t like the power of Nature?
“C…. h=p “ an utterly garbled voice over poor speaker attempts to ask me.
“I guess. Do you have a Maddie Greene here?” I inquire, leaning toward a stainless steel mouthpiece that has probably had every disease known to mankind spit into it in the last six hours, probably only washed about every 3 days.
“y-h, ic-op, frm- >ZZZZZ< 6.” the third worlds version of communication states in Cleveland Ohio, USA.
“Could you please repeat that? Ya broke up. A lot.” Sickly, recognizing things as they are, I smile inside.
“ic-nnnn-op, <ZZZZ> erk-NA! 6”
Coldly, raising my voice enough to alert the security people in the place, I simply say: “Hey, pisspoor DJ wanting to be a DR, could you please move closer to the microphone so I can hear you clearly.” Noticing the Rent-a-Cops behind him, behind even thicker glass, beginning to stir and eventually stand.
“Yes, She’s in room 26. Follow the black after I open the door.”
“Cool down, CPD rejects, “ I said looking at the wanna be cops. Looking at the guy behind the first line of glass, I quipped to him, “Was it really so hard to bend over instead of merely thinking yourself as a Greyhound Dispatcher to the drugged and fucked up?”
Door ‘A’ opens and I stroll underneath it’s threshold. I got that Black Line down with my left eye as my right eye, ears, nose and other insights catch things around me.
This first leading corridor crosses me before this ER’s four Intake Windows.
Truly speaking thru door “A”, a wonderland of things to be heard via gunshot wounds, lawn machine mishaps, “didn’t know the gun was loaded,” and “I thought is was just syphilis. But….”
The nasal capturing scents of this avenue reach me. Rubbing alcohol, floor polish carrying with the taint of fresh dripping blood and its iron memory that crashes into my memory from long ago.
Amused and passing, taking in and recording every moment in time, I pass the Nurses Station.
“Room 0115, serious DSB.”
“I held a stick of zilch and he stole it from me thinking it morphine.”
“popped that sucker into his neck and got glazed..”
“Okay, bump him to 13 psych.”
“Christ, I pulled a live gerbil from her vag-cav.”
“Nice, still alive?”
“The patient or the gerbil?”
“The gerbil! Christ, what a sad journey that little one went thru!”
“Yeah, it’s alive.”
“nice. My kids want a pet. Keep it and run a screen on it, okay?
“You got it. Buy me a coffee?
“No doubt! Such a splendid traveler deserves better,”
“The patient is fine.”
“Good, Can’t wait for her to return with a Blue Herrin shoved up there.”
A moment of silence passes between the with my footfalls.
“I don’t like birds, okay….”
Without aide, I arrive at room 26. Glass wall leading dusty blinds behind it, reaching its doorway.
I enter it.
Seeing a 16 year old on a ER bed,
End of part one.
I am sorry and out of time as I need to sleep for work in 8 hours.