A Bloody Good Halloween Story: Part Two

CHAPTER IV:  Night of the Living Dead

Still clutching a stack of paper towels over my prolifically bloody nose, I continued to exsanguinate all over my hands, arms and clothing as the EMT in the ambulance checked my vitals.  “Here’s a biohazard bag for anything that you need to cough up, as we don’t want you to swallow any blood if possible” she offered helpfully.  (Frankly, I didn’t have the heart (or strength) to tell her that having already gushed like a geyser for forty-five minutes before calling 911, I’d kinda already figured that one out for myself.)

What I also didn’t wish to share, was that whilst ‘coughing up’ seemed to imply a conscious and willful act or choice, I was helplessly at the mercy of the crimson globules which would form at any given moment somewhere in my cranium, slither unpleasantly down toward my throat and then discharge themselves out of my mouth without so much as a warning ala God-fearing “Felicia Alden” (Veronica Cartwright) in “The Witches of Eastwick”.

*bloop*

But gently guiding me into a private cubicle, helping me change out of my blood-soaked t-shirt, and rinsing off my glasses so I could see her face, I was comforted by the smiling lady who informed me that whilst there were three patients ahead of me, there were also three Doctors on the floor.  “It shouldn’t be too long now!” she reassured me, replacing my brimming biohazard baggie of viscous chunks with a clean one, and setting the first aside on a table for what I could only assume was to be analyzed, weighed and shipped to Ripley’s Believe it or Not! 

“Can I ask you a quick question?” I wanted to know before she disappeared to assist what sounded like a screaming gun-shot victim in the lobby.  “Is all of this gunk ‘normal’?” I wondered, as whilst I’d been cursed with the crimson ‘cherries’ for over two hours, my sinus cavities now seemed to be sculpting slightly more elegant and elongated maroon vesicles.

*blooooop*

“Why yes!” she responded encouragingly.  “That’s your body’s normal, healthy response.  You’re simply clotting.”  (Oh, the IRONY!)

>>><<< 

With various nurses and orderlies traipsing in and out of my room to replace my towel or washcloth as they became saturated (yes I was pinching my nostrils the entire time, but my hands were getting shaky and I occasionally lost my grip), I had just finished filling up Ripley’s biohazard bag #4 when the Doctor finally arrived at 5:44am.  And having a nurse squirt something medicinal up my nose, I marveled that all of a sudden the gushing had completely ceased!  (For those of you working the math regarding the duration of my deluge, I bled from exactly 1:29am to 5:44am – almost the exact equivalent of the time it took my friend Rose to run a 26.2 mile marathon.)

“We’ll need to keep you under observation for a while of course, and if you start bleeding again, we can put some packing in there and see how you do” the Doc nodded, making a notation in my chart.  “Try to get some rest and we’ll check on you in a bit” she smiled as my eyes were already closing from sheer adrenaline and exhaustion.

>>><<< 

“Well, that can’t be comfortable!” I heard a nurse laugh, as since my adjustable bed had been left in an upright “L” shape, I’d managed to cat-nap in a fetal position on the flat half of the mattress.  Would you like me to level that out for you?” she grinned as I stared bleary-eyed at the clock.  (Nearly 7:30am.)

“Actually, I was hoping to be discharged (yes, poor choice of word) as soon as possible, since I’d still like to make my appointment at 9:30 for a couple of ultrasounds completely unrelated to THIS” (I ‘wax-on, waxed-off’ my hands in front of my face for dramatic effect). 

After all, I’d arrived in an ambulance, I had no transportation, I had zero clue as to my whereabouts in the massive facility (I might as well have been at a random terminal in Chicago O’Hare International Airport, FFS), my clothes were covered in blood, and quite frankly I wanted to poop in my own toilet!

“I’ll get your paperwork started, but you definitely need to follow up with an ENT” the Emergency Doc recommended.  “I have a great rapport with a colleague across the street, so let me make a call” she smiled, breezing out of the cubicle.

Meanwhile, as 8:30am rolled around, a nurse reappeared to check my vitals as I sat anxiously on the edge of the bed, purse already in hand.  “Oh dear, your pulse is racing” she fretted, trotting off to inform the Doctor who demanded that I lay down flat and be hooked up to an IV for another forty-five minutes, as apparently I’d “lost a lot of blood”.  (Ya THINK?)

Suffice it to say, “discharged” at 9:30am (of course) and looking  very much like one of the globules that had slithered out of my mouth all morning, I oozed out the exit to the Registration desk where the sunniest receptionist whatever lived attempted to chat me up with all manner of “good mornings” and “how’s your day?” before bilking me out of $100 co-pay for using the Emergency Room.  (How’s my DAY?  Look up from the computer, lady!)  And as an official-looking gentleman pointed me to a free telephone with two cab companies on speed dial, I sat outside the famous Hospital waiting for my ride, never more grateful in my life to NOT be an A-list celebrity.

>>><<< 

CHAPTER V:  The Day of the Dead

Rolling directly from hospital to cab to clinic for my ultrasounds, still clad head to toe in my Jackson Pollack masterpiece splatter-wardrobe with fashionable matching Emergency Room plastic ID bracelets and taped-up cotton ball in the crook of my elbow, I was greeted most unpleasantly by the antithesis of the world’s sunniest receptionist whatever lived, who merely scowled at me for missing my first appointment.  “I’ll let them know you’re finally here” she said judgmentally as though I’d intentionally run late due to a fabulous morning at the spa.

But welcomed by the kind Radiologist who made me feel at ease by laughing at what must have already been a “very busy day” for me, I laid down quietly as she lubed me up with jelly for my pictures.  “We’re all done here with both ultrasounds” she smiled fifteen minutes later as she handed me a towel to mop up with.   

“That’s it?” I questioned the simplicity of the procedure, taking one swipe with the cloth in utter disbelief.  “I can really go home?”  I confirmed, a small tear welling up in my eye at the thought that my nightmare had finally ended.

“Go home, Penny.  Get some sleep!” she pleasantly ushered me out the door as the warm LA weather wrapped its rejuvenating rays of sunshine around me. 

“Home... home...home...” I whispered the word over and over, reaching for my keys to hop in my car and drive back to the comfort of my... CRAP! 

Now, having come this far on my hellish journey, I’d be damned if I’d give up on myself at that point.  And eyeballing a bus bench across the street at the corner, I lit up a cigarette and heroically strode tall to the pedestrian crossing. 

I was brave!  I was fearless!  I could achieve anything I set my mind to!

Unfortunately, I was also walking braless in a medicinal ointment clingy dried-blood soaked t-shirt directly towards a group of Orthodox Jewish gentlemen in black coats and hats who were gathered together in front of their local Synagogue.

Aww, C’MON!!!

>>><<< 

Whilst I appreciated the immediately averted eyes and intoning ‘mitzvahs’ of the sons of the Tribes of Israel looking out for my uncleansed immortal soul, I chose to proceed a bit further up the street to a Bank of America ATM wherein I could grab some extra cash for my final cab ride home.  “What’s the exact address?” the taxi service wished to know as I lowered my cell phone and approached an already occupied teller.

“I need the precise location of this branch” I whispered urgently, not wishing to bother the patron, but quite eager to be on my way.

“Right here, right here, right here!” the man behind the bullet-proof glass squealed, eying my clothing and flinging a business card into the drop slot cooperatively, surmising that clearly my previous bank heist of the day had not ended on such agreeable terms.    

>>><<< 

Returning at last to the sanctuary of my bat-cave, I noticed for the first time that the Fire Dept. had secured my location by turning on every single light in the house, presumably to confirm that I hadn’t been secretly concealing the presence of an abusive boyfriend.  I too noted the exquisite horror in the light of day at the massive amounts of spattered blood on the bathroom mirror, as well as the embryotic-looking globules clinging to my sink like a Jell-O mold.  What I hadn’t noticed until after I cleaned up however, was the innocent blink of a voice message on my cell phone...

“Hi Penny, this is Renee at Dr. ‘Ears Nose and Throat’.  Your emergency room Doctor gave us a call, and we’d be happy to squeeze you in today at 4:15.  See you then!”

(Say it with me:  “Aww, C’MON!!!)

But hey, what’s a bloody good Halloween story for, if it doesn’t end with a couple of red hot cauterizing pokers up the nose?!

Wishing you buckets of happy Halloween treats and proper blood-curdling screams,

~P