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Have you ever planned a fantastic party and then missed it yourself?
It just happened to me in the most unexpected way when I found myself being transported to the new Roane Medical Center at 4:30 in the morning recently.
Coughing, feverish and in a mental fog, hardly able to respond verbally when I entered the ER, I was soon able to respond to questions by the attending staff.
First my insurance cards were scanned, then my brain received the same procedure somewhere in the bowels of this very large facility.
Finding nothing (literally), more tests were ordered and performed until it was determined that I was indeed sick.
All this went expeditiously and in a very professional manner, performed by the most caring and efficient folks you will ever want to meet.
I began to feel better and became fully responsive.
Long story short, I spent five fun-filled days basking in the endless fluid drips, pills and needles, late-night blood draws and vital-sign searches.
I was not always the best of patients, and I apologize to the excellent nurses and staff who listened to my whining and rants with kind-hearted understanding.
But I still have a severe attitude against the bone-chilling shrieks that come from the alarms on the drip poles every time they detect an empty drip bag.
Who is this noise for, I wonder?
Is it designed just to rattle my nerves — already on edge because of the Gala at the Courthouse I know I’m going to miss?
Please, technology, wherefore art thou?
We made it to the moon and back, send robot planes to bomb terrorists unseen, our cars talk to us and we wear miniature TV’s on our wrists.
Can’t we invent an IV system that alerts the staff without giving a sleeping patient a heart attack every 30 minutes?
Or at least take down the sign in every patient room that practically shouts “We care about you.”
Thanks, RMC, for making me well!