Or, the Magic Bus goes to the hospital.
Mike is never sick. He is an absolute model of healthiness. He is also nearly a compulsive hand washer. So, what the hell happened this past week? He called from Orlando, Florida to say he felt really bad and his face was swelling. I figured along with the bear siting last weekend, some exotic insect had chomped him. I snarled over the cell phone, “Go to the emergency room!” Surprisingly, he did. And let’s hear it for those Mickey Mouse professionals — no blood work, no culture, you have an infection, here’s a handful of antibiotics. They didn’t even give him mouse ears to wear to complete the horror ensemble.
His local doctor took one look at his and sent him off to the hospital, Martha Jefferson (why does TJ get all the statues and she doesn’t even get a shadow profile?), where we camped this weekend — Mike, his companion Mr. IV pole, and me. For some reason they quartered him on the pediatric floor. I guess that’s proof that Mike really is the eternal child.
Mr. IV Pole probably racked up at least 10 miles as we toured the parking lots and the building floors. Somebody must have thought we were escaping and called the hospital to say there was a patient outside who might need help. Hmm, perhaps I was invisible (or they thought I was an accomplice). We stood around the front entrance and would have squeegeed windshelds like homeless people, but we were squeegee-free (but really promoting whiplash with our presence).
The hospital was preternaturally silent, even beyond weekend slow. We tried to meet the neighbors, but that proved difficult (i.e., they were dead). We read WSJ, NY Times, watched the second Transformers movie (WTF?) and the True Grit remake (Jeff Bridges was awesome. What an impressive drunk).
We even had a curbside consult with the infections disease doctor. I asked about a reduced consultation rate but he was noncommittal.
By Sunday morning, the infection had receded, but the doctors nixed discharge until Mr. Petri Dish could finish his 48 hour gig. Mike’s doctor seemed bemused by his wish to be discharged, wondering if he had something to do or somewhere to go; well, gee, no, we really enjoy the colorless room where we have to hold our breath to get past each other, all our toys are at our house, and Mike has to wear a gown that’s more revealing than a stripper’s ensemble. Duh.
Mondays are rarely good days, but this one was. Mike was discharged early in the morning. And unaided, I might add. He just sailed out the front door on his own — no wheelchair, no being handed over to a responsible adult. (I guess they knew there wasn’t one in this duo.) Mr. Petri Dish ruled out anything exotic, so I think this is an all’s-well-that-ends-well story. How Shakespearean.