Breathe Me

Hospital Hells

Have you ever noticed that whenever people describe hospitals, it's almost always about the smell? Well I have and honestly, it's overstated. We get it; all hospitals smell of rubbing alcohol and cleaning supplies that seem to be poured in abundance to mask the smell of everyone who's died there. But what gets to me more than the smell is the absolutely freezing temperatures. It could feel like the middle of the sahara outside but as soon as those sliding doors open, you feel yourself taken right back to Antarctica. People seem to skip over this fact and I can't quite understand why. Sure, you can remember to bring a jacket, but unless you remember to bring your robber beanie and some gloves, you're bound to lose at least a nose or a finger before your appointment is all said and done. However, i suspect their unnatural temperatures and smells are more than just an attempt to reduce the germ count. No, I am much more convinced it all is a part of a scheme to make your stay there as uncomfortable as possible in attempt to eliminate as many of the attention-seeking-guests-with-no-illness-besides-a-lack-of-attention as possible. I wish i could tell the doctors they don't have to worry about that with me because their plan worked a long time ago; I hated it here.

"Danielle, so glad to see you again. School started back up, right?"

I hated when doctors felt the need to make pleasant conversations with you. It was like they were luring you into a van with candy, making you believe they were kind people there to soothe your pain when really, they planned on stabbing you with a needle two minutes later. Not falling for it, dude.

"Yeah, first week back," I said, mustering up the cheeriest expression I could give when underneath, I could really care less.

"So, the medication," Dr. Sullivan began, finally cutting the sweet talk and pulling out my file, pen in hand,"How's that been going for you?"

"Great," I replied, giving my mom a reassuring smile as he scribbled something down. "Haven't had a problem yet."

"Good, good. And you're taking it- what did I write down here? Ah, twice a day. Is that correct?"

I just simply nodded my head, knowing there would be a lot of yes-no questions, and I hated sounding like a broken record.

"Well, the drug is still in its trial period, so we'll have to keep strict tabs on that.Have you been monitoring any changes with your PEFR?"

PEFR stands for Peak expiratory Flow rate, and it does just what the name says. Most people don't know the technical name for it, but if you've been knocked out for surgery, chances are you've used one. When you haven't been breathing on your own for a while, doctors often require you take this flow rate tube that you have to blow into, trying to get the needle to reach a certain number. The number itself differs from person to person, depending on height, but whatever your ideal number is, doctors like to see at least eighty percent of that number or higher for them to tell you you have a good reading. When it drops below fifty percent, that's when you know you're having a medical emergency. Doctors estimated I was at about forty-three percent when I had my attack. I had never had that low of a reading since.

Or at least I assumed. Dr. Sullivan insisted I take a test every day, especially at times when I was feeling low in order to really see the impact the medicine was making and so that I could receive proper medical attention if the readings were sub par. But, in my own quiet form of rebellion, I didn't listen. Unfortunately, as with most things, it had a way of coming back to bite me.

"No, I haven't. I, uh, lost the tube."

Wow, dani, you really told him.

"You should've said something!"; Dr. Sullivan spun around in his chair, pulling out something from one of his drawers. I felt my mom's death stare piercing the back of my head; I kept my gaze looking forward.