I went to the Columbia Presbyterian hospital last night. I’m so used to Bellevue ER psych. This was totally different. First, I know to tell Bellevue that I’m having trouble breathing, and not having a panic attack. They’ll send you right to psych ER, which is an insane place. I always beg to be moved to regular ER. I’ve been wheeled in and out of both, in a wheel chair and sometimes in a rolling bed. That’s the thing about panic attacks. No one knows what’s going on. But because you feel like you’re dying/can’t breathe/going nuts, they let you in right away. I’ve been in ER before for other things, and they make you wait FOREVER. I’m so used to Bellevue ER for panic attacks, I know how to work them. But Columbia Presby? They took all my shit and told me they could legally hold me for 72 hours until I was clear to leave. I was scared. At that point I already felt fine and was ready to go. But they made me wait. Columbia Presbyterian psych ward is not nearly as crazy as Bellevue’s. Everyone was just asleep. At Bellevue, there is farting, yelling, police, bibles, full body binds… I could go on. I made friendly conversation with the security guards, because yes, they are there to guard us crazy folks. They were very super cool. I was the only one up and relatively sane. Some of them taught me games. We talked about taking vacations and where we would go. I watched the ER things going on all around me. I pled with a doctor early on to see me so I could go. He couldn’t. I caught the eye of the main doctor in charge while he was finishing up with another patient. He wouldn’t let go of my gaze and I know he saw my desperation. He gave me a look that said a thousand things. I knew I’d be out. But I had to wait. They were supposed to give me blood tests, call people I knew, poke and prod me, but they didn’t go through all that. I was let go, and everyone was so kind. I saluted my doctor when I left.
I don’t often have to deal with these things. But the peek into this whole other world is fascinating. I’m a nutter, for sure. But I’m not quite there, so far as I can see from being in ER psych wards so often, or even ER in general. I watched a woman show her stab wound on her breast to the security guard we all have to go through to get to Bellevue ER. Believe what you hear. That place is crazy. I went there twice in one week once. They remembered me. They were so sweet. I remember a really hot doctor had to conduct this bizarro test on me, and I was so embarrassed, because it involved two people to twist me around in a very unattractive way.
As a woman, they pretty much always ask if you might be, or are, pregnant. When I was super single, and was in ER and told them I was not pregnant, they asked, “Are you sure?” I was like, yeah, unless you believe in immaculate conception. We all had a good laugh. A nurse had to give me some weird heart test and had to pull up my bra, and see my boobs, and she said, “I know this is really inappropriate, but I really like your bra!”(GAP body) Last night, I had to undress in front of the security guard. She said, “Everything but your panties”, and when it came time to take off my bra, I asked her, “Can you at least take me to dinner first?” Hospitals are strange but fascinating places. I fucking hated them when my father was hospitalized for a heart attack many years ago, and it was super fucking depressing. But I have my own unique experiences.
You pretty much are in love with everyone you deal with. Great staff. Everyone knows exactly what they are doing. When you’re in the throws of a terrible physical and emotional trauma, these people know exactly what to do. I’ve been to ERs more than I’d like to admit, but then again, I have a lot of problems that I’m not entirely sure what to do with. Sometimes it’s nice to be taken care of.
