“No. Don't touch that one. It belongs to us. Rather use that tape.” These were the only words I could pick up as the petite nurses were frantically working on me while I lay on a hospital bed that had become home for a few days.
Only a few minutes prior, I had gone to the central nurses’ station to ask for help.
“My chest. My chest is full,” I reported. They looked rather occupied and so I was weary of being demanding. I was in a state of confusion at the time, as I was also falling asleep from the industrial-strength pain killers I had been given earlier.
“Mommy. I will come with a machine to check on your heart. Please wait for me.” She responded with a well-trained empathetic voice.
I waited.
There was a blur. It didn't appear, it just… was.
There were no fewer than 4 nurses at my side. The ones on the left seemed like observers, while the two on the right were actively involved in whatever was being done to me.
There was a fifth. She was by the feet, arms folded, waiting for instruction.
The two nurses on my right were deliberating over a piece of sticky label. One wanted to stick it on my neck, the other felt like it should remain discreet.
I mustered up the strength to stop the commotion. I tried to raise my arm. I needed help. My chest was on fire!
Wait.
My chest was fine now. Was I indignant because they were not paying attention to me, but each other?
I didn't like that I was laying there while two professionals mildly argued over my body. Very coffiny.
They eventually reached an agreement, in a few seconds that felt like an eternity.
That was it. The label was going on my neck. I still needed to be identified. That would take two hours or so, as my nearest loved one lived about 45 minutes away from the hospital. There's the parking scenario. The refusal to accept. All time-wasters.
The blur was transitional. I don't know the rest of this story.
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