If I Should Die...

Okay:

So, I've got the flu or the Ebola Virus or something. I can't breathe. I can't swallow. And I just started a new job, so I can't really take off.

The last time I felt like this, I ended up having a throat infection that sent me to the hospital for a night. It was the first time I had slept in a hospital since the night I was born.

I had drug myself to my doctor's office after waking up weak from dehydration, unable to swallow and in a world of indescribable pain. I stumbled into the waiting room unannounced and used sign language to tell the receptionist I needed to see the doctor. I grunted and pointed at my throat, then wiped the drool from my chin.

"Poor baby," she smiled. "Have a seat over there. I'll have the doctor see you right away."

I was soon led to my doctor's office. Had I been truly lucid, I may have found this odd. I wasn't asked to strip or put on one of those paper gowns. But in my condition, I was just happy to be in a room with prescription medicine it it.

My doctor walked in, took one look at me, shoved a Popsicle stick in my mouth, then called the nurse and told her I needed to be checked into the hospital immediately.

All my relatives came to visit. My aunts, my mother and father. My sister was there in spirit. My girlfriend, with whom I was on the outs at the time, showed up to offer her support and express her guilt. We had spent the entire week in my apartment arguing. She insisted that I was using my illness as an excuse to not talk to her. But I literally could not talk.

When she walked into my room, I remember feeling an odd sort of vindication. Like, "I told you so. I hope you feel like shit."

My mother did what she normally does. Used dark humor to add some levity to the situation. "If you die, who's going to take out my garbage and house sit when I'm on vacation? Be considerate."

Then there was some commotion. People were leaving the room and talking to doctors in the hallway. As it turned out, this hospital did not take my insurance and I needed immediate transport to a neighboring hospital to avoid being billed.

The ambulance came in the night, manned by a nice woman who did her best to make conversation. "What do you do for a living, sweetie?"

"Mmghf."

"Really? Where do you teach?"

"Hmp Mgrl."

"Wow! What a coincidence. My nephew goes there."

"Hze Mk Nrfw?"

"His name is ________________."


Now this I remember very clearly. Whoever this kid was, the mentioning of his name sent me into hysterics. He must have been a real asshole. I shot up straight in my gurney and shouted, "WRIZZHEE?"

The woman and my mother laughed long and hard. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital the next morning. This time my father was sitting there. He had been instructed to take me home as soon I was discharged.

He sat in a chair across from me with his legs crossed at the knee. He was reading the newspaper. When my eyes opened he spoke, "Good morning, son."

"Morning, dad."

"You know, you really should take better care of yourself. You only get one body."

"My throat still hurts."

"Squeeze that button over there for the medicine."

I pressed down on the button with my numb and clumsy fingers and within seconds morphine was coursing through my veins.

Well.

In a word, the shit was incredible. It was like a twenty minute orgasm. My father continued to talk about something, as he's prone to do, regardless of whether or not anyone is listening, until he realized that I was "higher than all get out", as he put it.

In a few hours I was discharged with a prescription for Endocet.

I recovered in a week or so, and returned to work about 20 pounds lighter.

When a student asked where I had been, I told him I had a throat infection. To which he replied, "Oooh. Well, what was you doing with your throat, Peaches?"


Thanks for reading.


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Factoid: If I die before morning, I want Morgan Freeman to do my eulogy.