|Not really pertinent, but I thought it was hysterical.|
Last night, or rather at four this morning, I had the misfortune of feeling poorly enough to go to the ER in Portland, half an hour's drive from my home. This decision did not please my husband who is woefully short on sleep and wished I would wait until morning to feel bad. Alas, I couldn't, so off we went under cover of darkness. Hoping it was only pneumonia and not a heart attack -- the symptoms could fit either scenario -- I arrived at the ER and was from the very first moment attended to by youngsters, each sporting a big sign in block letters that designated their status and making it feel all the more like make-believe. There was TRIAGE NURSE, followed by NURSE, followed by DOCTOR, followed by RADIOLOGY TECH, then another DOCTOR and eventually another NURSE.
I'm not saying the lot of them weren't good at their jobs, although only time will tell. (If I keel over later today, they weren't.) It's just that they all were so young it was hard for me to take them seriously, especially with the nose rings, one pierced tongue, and several visible tattoos. Conversely, they all treated me like I might drop dead on their watch, with wheelchairs at the ready to go from the bed to the bathroom and a hand to steady me should I need it, the assumption being I did.
It was all very disheartening, giving me a glimpse of the true horrors of old age, I should live so long. Making me wonder: Should I?