3. Groggy

Most people think hospitals are cold and scary.  I think they’re pleasant.  There’s the constant ambient orchestra of beeps from heart monitors and PA systems.  Everything is clean and sterile like an Apple store.  But most of all, everyone is there to help you and protect you.  If your heart suddenly stops, an army of trained angels rush in and do everything they can to save your life.  That’s pretty amazing.  Unfortunately, it’s extremely expensive and I don’t have medical insurance.

I sat up from my bed and looked around me.  I knew I needed to go to the hospital but I sure as hell wasn’t planning on it.  Who brought me here?  How did I get here?  What the hell happened?  “You’re awake.”  It was like a ghost spoke from the corner of the room.  My eyes were blurry and I didn’t see the nurse standing there.  I tried wiping them but my hand was covered in a bandage the size of an oven mitt.  As my vision focused, I noticed the nurse was no more than 23-years-old.  She was small, fit and cute.  She had a stable job and probably paid her rent weeks before it was due.  Bitch. 

“How are you doing?” she asked.  Bitch!  How do you think I’m doing?  I just woke up in a God damn hospital!  “Groggy,” I said, cracking a little smile while trying to lay the groundwork of avoiding a hospital bill.  “It’s the medicine,” she said.  Medicine?!  I looked at my wrist.  Yup.  An I.V.  There’s another $600.  Wonderful.  “The doctor will be in soon.”  Perfect!  Now a doctor.  If you move to Canada or Mexico, can they hunt you down for medical bills?  Didn’t 50 Cent not pay his medical bills when he got shot nine times?

Soon after the nurse vanished, the doctor came in giving the patented two quick knocks before entering the room.  It was an older lady doctor in her 50s and she was wearing a pantsuit, not the white doctor/scientist jacket.  That’s odd.  “Ms. McClure?  How are you feeling?”   

Seriously?  

“Groggy,” I said, more of a smile this time.  This was the person I was really gonna have to sucker in order to get out of the bill.  “My name is Morgan Walker and I’m a psychiatrist here at the hospital.”  Uhhhh...what?  “I wanted to talk to you about your wrist,” she said.  Hmm…well, that was unexpected.  I didn’t know whether to freak out about the cost of a shrink or try to figure out why the hell I was now talking to a shrink. 

“Your friend Eesha brought you in.”  EESHA! That bitch!  She actually came back with the God damn cleaner she kept blabbing on about.  The pieces were coming together.  “She said you cut your wrist and tried to kill yourself.”  Never mind on the pieces coming together.  What was that?  “Kill myself?” I asked, except this time I was genuinely confused.  “Did you try and cut your wrist, Novella?”  I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t try to cut my wrist.  But according to the oven mitt on my hand and my dumb ass land lady, it sure looked like I did.  So I did what all great actresses do.  I burst into tears.

They put me on some sort of payment plan and mandated that I see a psychiatrist once a week.  I had to seriously figure out how I was going to pay for all this shit.  At this point, the porn studio that bitchface receptionist mentioned wasn’t sounding so bad.  When I got back to my apartment, the Eviction Notice had been taken down.  Alright, that’s one bullet dodged.  My floor no longer needed to be swept, it needed to be mopped.  It was covered in so much blood it looked like someone had been shot in the head and left for dead.  Man, I really went all-in for that sucker.

The hospital required my friend Candice come stay the night with me which was cool.  I needed to talk with someone.  But most of all, I needed something to eat.  That I.V. fluid only lasts so long.  My fridge was empty and so were my cupboards.  I couldn’t be more of a cliché if I tried.  I felt like shit and couldn’t drive to any restaurant with my hand all wrapped up.  But I needed something to eat.  I took off my shoes and kicked my feet up on the coffee table thinking about my next meal.  Can you eat paper?  I have a lot of scripts.  I started chewing on my other hand, but again, it just wasn’t as good as the bandaged one.  Plus, I needed to chill out on the chewing, especially since I was seeing a shrink the next day. 

My toe nails need to be painted.  I hate it when the nail polish starts peeling up.  When you’re trying to be a hot actress and your toes are all crusty, it’s not very attractive.  I started picking my toes.  I feel like I need a sand blaster to get all this shit off.  One thing I’ve always been proud of (and what most guys seem to really dig) is my flexibility.  I was never a ballerina, but I could do some wicked yoga if you ever dared me.  Without even trying, I popped my big toe into my mouth.  I know it’s disgusting, but then again, you should have seen how gross my toes looked.  I bit hard and blood started dripping into my lap.  Damnit.  I’m not going to do this again.  I kicked my foot out and put it back on the coffee table.  No more.

Shit.  What could I eat?  Maybe I could read a magazine.  Maybe I could eat that magazine.  Damnit!  Should I walk somewhere and get some food?  I just took off my shoes.  Maybe I could wear my sandals.  But my toes look like shit.  Look at them!  Now there’s a little tab on my toe from biting it.  Shit!  If I don’t take care of it, it’s going to spread and get worse when I walk somewhere.  

Alright, I just got to get rid of that tab.