Your first name, last name, and date of birth become a mantra.
Every time a nurse touches you they will ask you for these piece of information, so that you can confirm your identification.
It’s as if to say you had a stunt double come in to play the role of you in this scene where they draw blood from your veins, because you’re already bruised from yesterday’s visit at the cardiologist.
In your hospital bed, you type up an email to your class, the one that you skipped a year of schooling to get in front of, and you tell them that you won’t be in class tomorrow.
“We will not be discussing it in class, but feel free to finish The Crucible,” you write. Although, you know they won’t read it, because there’s too much for them to do when it’s midterm season.
There’s too much for you to do, and instead the doctors at the hospital want you to wait around for an hour, two hours, three hours, four hours... until it is seven o’clock in the evening, and they tell you that they haven’t seen any arrhythmia, but based on what you’re telling them, someone will be down to wheel you to a room as soon as they can,
that they will be keeping you overnight.
“Can’t I just walk?” you ask. Technically, you can, but they won’t let you. Your feet feel fine; it’s your heart that’s had a change of pace, in the most literal sense.
The hospital gown that they gave you hours ago is starting to remind you of your Catholic school uniform. It’s ugly, a bit too exposing for your taste, and it makes you blend in with all of the others who lay in a bed and pray to a God that they may or may not believe in to make it through the night, and the next day, and so on. Until they don’t feel like this anymore.
