The Emergency Room
My mother is laying on her side, curled up in the fetal position rocking back and forth. She’s been laying on this gurney at the ER for what seems like hours. Nobody has seen us yet.
I walk over to the nurse station for the fourth time and timidly ask, “Do you know how much longer it’s going to be?”
The nurse behind the desk doesn’t even bother to look up. “It’ll be soon.” It’s the same response she gave me the last three times I asked. And none of those predictions have so far come true.
I turn back to return to my mom’s side when I finally hear our name called. I start jumping in place and waving my hands, “we’re here, we’re here,” I say excitedly as if I’ve just been selected to be the next Queen of England.
A middle-aged nurse in a white lab coat approaches us. She has mousy brown hair, pushed back into a ponytail, glasses that sit at the edge of her wide nose and what looks like a scowl.
She puts her hand on my mother’s arm and asks very nicely, “What’s the problem mam?” Ok, maybe that wasn’t a scowl. She seems nice enough.
I quickly jump in. “This is my mother, Fay,” using my mom’s nickname because I don’t want to spend the next ten minutes trying to teach the nurse how to pronounce my mom’s unpronounceable name. “She doesn’t speak much English so I am going to translate for her.”
“Ok, so what is the reason for her visit to the ER today?” she asks as she pushes the wheelchair my mom is sitting in past the double doors and into the ER itself.
“Well, she has not been feeling well all day. She has a terrible headache, is very upset and irritable and now she’s….” I pause because I can’t find the word I’m looking for. We’ve reached the space designated for my mom and the nurse is closing the curtains around us.
“She’s what?” The nurse prompts.
“She’s, she’s, um…” and then it comes to me, of course. It’s one of those difficult English words I’ve recently learned.
“She’s very obnoxious,” I say.
“Obnoxious?”
“Yes, very. And we didn’t know what else to do but bring her to the ER. She doesn’t seem herself at all.
The nurse glares at me over her glasses.
“Honey, what do you expect us to do here?”
“Well, isn’t this an Emergency Room? I thought you can help her.”
“We only treat medical conditions here, we don’t treat psychological conditions. What you need to do is to have her see a psychologist. We can give you some referrals if you like.”
I’m pretty sure a psychologist is someone who deals with mental illnesses. Does the nurse think my mom has a mental illness? My poor mother hasn’t even said a single word. How has this nurse assessed her as crazy so quickly? And we’ve waited this long to be told that she needs to see a psychologist? I can’t let this happen.
“No, no, she needs a doctor,” I insist, “She is in a lot of pain.”
“Okay, other than the headache what other physical symptoms does she have?”
“I told you, she’s very obnoxious.”
The nurses face looks like it’s turning a shade or two darker. Why is she getting upset at me?
“I said P H Y S I C A L,” she yells at me.
I’m beginning to get very upset too. Why is she yelling at me?
“It is P H Y S I C A L,” I mimic back. “She’s O B N O X I O U S,” I repeat very slowly and loudly. Maybe it’s my accent.
Just then I hear my mom cry out weakly. The nurse and I turn towards her just in time to see her throw up on the floor, off the side of her wheelchair.
The nurse turns back to me with small smile. “Were you trying to say ‘nauseous?’”
“Nauseous?” I ask.
“Yes, nauseous. When you’re ugh, ugh,” she says mimicking the throwing up motion.
Oh, so it’s nauseous. You live and you learn, right?
But I’m definitely going to have to look up obnoxious in the dictionary when we get home.