Val Thevictorian's Wild Ride

When we last gathered, you at the feet of Val Thevictorian, eagerly yearning for tales of her recent near-death experience, Val was awaiting transport to a city hospital from her Backroads ER facility.

My chariot arrived at 3:30 p.m. I was strapped onto a hydraulic metal contraption with a gossamer covering some might loosely refer to as a "mattress." The strapping looked like seatbelts or come-a-longs. I had an oxygen tank at my feet, to which my nasal cannula was attached. You all know what a nasal cannula is, don't you? It's that clear rubbery plastic thing with two prongs that sticks in your nose to spray oxygen. I was happy to have it.

I had a needle taped to my left inner elbow, though Hick insisted it was NOT a needle, but made of plastic. Like he would know, what with it taped down, showing only the green plastic cylinder end suitable for shooting drugs into. I had not the breath to bandy words with Dr. Hick concerning my arm plumbing. Hick chose to follow the ambulance (ambulance chaser!) so he would have a way home from the hospital.

My attendants warned me that the ride would not be smooth. I might best compare it to riding over cobblestones on steel wheels while laying on an iron platform. No shock absorbing going on. At all. My bed was locked into the floor of the ambulance. I had to brace myself with my good right arm against the side to keep from sloshing back and forth on turns and lane changes. I had a lovely view out the back door. A lovely view of tailgaters who had once again found Val Thevictorian, and like nothing better than to rattle her cage. The cage being this ambulance, which had an alarm every time a car got too close to one corner of the bumper or the other. My ride was a cacophony of corner-cutters. Though I wistfully looked for my Hick the entire ride, I did not see him. Little did I know he had run by the homestead to grab a couple of things he thought I might need. None of which I did. None of which included pajama pants or sweatpants.

After an hour and a half of lesser gasping, and intermittent vitals checks, I arrived at my destination. I would not recommend riding in an ambulance down I-270 during rush hour on a Friday evening. I had to resort to closing my eyes, as the morphine and Ativan seemed to have worn off. Thank goodness the Lasix had flowed out of my body by the time the ambulance arrived.

My attendants hauled me out of the back of the truck, into the bright sunlight, blinking like a bloated white critter exposed by an overturned rotting board. They whisked me into MoBap to an elevator bank, up to the sixth floor, around a roundabout, and into a cramped double room. How they unloaded me in those close quarters I still cannot quite fathom.

The RN checked me in, I was ensconced in the window bed, vitaled, and offered a supper tray. That was great news, because all I had at the Backroads ER all day was a quarter of a turkey sandwich and two sips of hot Diet Coke. And THAT was an afterthought, at 2:30 p.m., when a nurse checked on me and asked how I was doing, and I replied that I was getting a little hungry. Apparently, folks at the Backroads ER are expected to fast from 7:45 a.m. until they are pawned off on a different hospital.

We will leave me here tonight, in my MoBap bed, snug as a clotted bug in a tight rug, with visions of deep breaths dancing in my head.

Little did I know what lay in store...