It was ten o'clock at night. Philip and I made our way down the hallway and into the elevator. Our room was on deck 11 and we hit the button for 4. The door opened on 4. Gone were the bright, showy colors of carpet and walls of the upper 'cruisey' floors. Deck 4 was black - shiny black metal - like a foot locker - with brass touches (door knobs, buttons, trim) and the floor was covered with a rubber mat - no colorful carpet on deck 4. We walked over to the Infirmary door. It was about 4 foot wide and 10 foot tall and locked tight. There was not a soul in sight. Phil and I were having a Wizard of Oz moment (the Dorothy and friends at the door to the Emerald City scene). On the black metal door was a sign that basically said 'For after hours help call 6-8-9-2.' We read the sign and Philip stepped across the foyer, to the phone on the wall and called the number. He spoke to someone and hung up without comment. There we stood before the big door - ready to go in. About 45 seconds later, a small door down the hall - about 20 feet away - opened and a young woman stepped partway into the hall and said "Come down here."
We went to the side door and stepped into the Infirmary. A woman by the name of Haydee (Heida) Baptista began gathering our information into the computer. She also started handing out papers for me to sign. Here we stood in the most precarious medical / insurance situation that a human being can find themselves in. I paused for a moment, took a deep breath and started signing away whatever they needed to help me feel better.
In a few minutes, the on-call doctor stepped into the room. This was Dr. DelaCruz. He had a kind face and began asking questions as well. He touched my left back - between my ribcage and hip - which I later found out is my left flank - I never even knew I had a flank but apparently I have two. I could not stand to be touched. I was at a level 8, on a scale of 1 to 10, and that is equivalent to "I just sat my hand on the red hot surface of an electric stove eye." A 10 would have me shucking this husk of a human likeness that everyone sees and knows me as Sarah. And a red and black entity would emerge with two inch claws and start ripping everything and everyone in sight! A drug laced bullet from a dart gun would be the only hope to save the world. Thankfully I never reached 10.
I told Dr. DelaCruz about painting the bedroom in a rental and that I thought I had a pulled muscle. Well, he looked dubious. I will mention here that someone on the staff had already poked a needle in my arm and had taken a blood sample, leaving one of those 'port' 'hook-up' thingees in my inner arm. Dr. DelaCruz listened to me and shook his head slightly. "We'll see what the blood test shows," he said.
So after giving a urine sample and a blood test and being told that I have a fever of 100 degrees, I was informed that I have a kidney infection. I was dumbfounded! In my mind, I could see the muscular jock standing there in the gym shorts and tank top, weights in hand, and slowly that image disappeared on the news of 'no pulled muscle.' And now, a very familiar looking guy in top hat and tails, with a Sam Elliot mustache and a monocle in position over his left eye , shows up to represent a more complicated diagnosis. He lifts the eyebrow of his right eye - in a 'take that smarty pants' response.
They gave me an infusion of antibiotics and Tylenol for my pain. They felt that taking the antibiotics by mouth would take longer to get ahead of the infection. And then they wanted me to come back the next day for two more treatments. I agreed and after the infusion, they wrapped my arm up and Philip and I made our way back to our room. I slept like a baby.
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