When we went out in the hallway, I held up a finger to my lips. The fewer people who knew I was a wimp, the better. I could hear Hartley’s music through the door of his room as we snuck out.
By the time we got to the E.R., I felt shaky and exhausted. The fluorescent lighting made even the employees look ill. The hospital was the very last place in the world I wanted to be. The only saving grace was that the place seemed deserted. “Thanksgiving Day is always nuts,” the triage nurse told us. “People visiting with family tend to injure themselves. Go figure. But tonight they’re all in their cars on the way home. If most of them aren’t drunk, we might have a quiet night.”
She took my forms. “Callahan? I pulled your file already. Your parents called ahead.”
Of course they did.
“Don’t admit me,” I begged about a half hour later, after peeing into a cup. (By the way, that’s no easy feat when you can’t squat over the toilet.) “I’ll take the medicine, I promise. I hate the hospital.”
The young E.R. doctor nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure you do. But your fever is something we want to watch, and there’s a risk that the infection could spread to your kidneys.”
“But it hasn’t. I don’t have much pain.”
He smiled, but we both knew that it didn’t matter what I reported, because decreased sensitivity down there made me an unreliable witness. “We have to stomp it out, Corey. Spinal cord patients have to be careful. There have been cases when UTIs permanently impaired patients’ bladder control.”
That made me cringe.
“I believe you that this is probably a fluke,” he went on. “But it isn’t worth the risk, okay? I just need to ask you a few more questions. Have you been drinking enough fluids?”
I nodded.
“And voiding your bladder regularly?”
Here’s where I had to fess up. “Yes. The only thing that changed is that I didn’t self-cath for a couple of days.” Each morning and evening, I was supposed to use a catheter to fully empty my bladder. But I hadn’t brought catheters to Hartley’s house, because I didn’t want anyone to see them. “I’ve gone without it a few days before, and I didn’t have any problems.”
He frowned. “When this is over, you’re going to need to be vigilant again, I’m sure you realize that.”
I nodded, embarrassed.
“Another trigger is sexual activity, both touching and intercourse,” he said. “Try to urinate before and after. Especially after.”
“That’s really not the issue here,” I said, turning red.
He actually laughed. “File that advice away for later, then. For now, you’ll get one night of intravenous antibiotics, Okay? You’ll conk out in a room upstairs, and in the morning we’ll release you. You’ll be gone before you know it.”
Liars.
Dana went home. I put on the stupid gown — open in the back, of course — and watched some bad TV while a nurse stuck a needle in my arm. Overnight, I was interrupted no fewer than four times, as nurses clocked my vital signs and swapped out my IV bag.
I peed about fifty times in the chilly hospital room toilet.
When morning came, I began to ask every human who wandered into my room when I could leave, from nurses’ assistants to the bringer of breakfast cereal. Unfortunately, the human I saw most often was a large, surly nurse with garishly hennaed hair. And Big Red was not helpful. “The resident will start rounds at ten,” was all she said.
I put on my underwear, jeans and socks. I transferred to my chair, but I couldn’t change my top until my IV was removed. Ten o’clock came and went. I stared at the clock, fuming.
Hartley texted me from econ class. Yoo hoo! Did U oversleep? U R missing a stimulating lecture on international trade.
Me: Sounds better than my day. Having a little snafu. C U back at the ranch.
Around noon, a doctor came in. Naturally it wasn’t the youngster from last night, because that would have been too efficient. This doctor had plenty of gray hair and a hasty demeanor. He yanked my chart out of the holder and squinted at the notes. “Okay,” he said finally. “Fever’s down. I’ll leave a prescription with the nurse, and you can be on your way.”
He left.
I still had an IV in my arm. Someone brought me a plate of gray mystery meat and rice, which I did not eat.
When Big Red came back, I told her what the doctor had said. “So let’s remove this IV?”
“He didn’t leave that prescription,” she frowned. “I’ll check.” She turned to walk out.
“Wait!” I called as her wide bottom retreated.
Another hour passed, and when she came back in with my prescription, I could barely be civil. “Would you please take this out?” I begged. “And then I can go?”
She looked at my wrist as if she’d never seen an IV before. “The assistant does that. And I can’t release you without someone over eighteen to accompany you.”
“What?”
She nodded. “Students need to be picked up after a procedure.”
“But…” I felt my blood pressure double. “An IV is not a procedure!”