CHAPTER 7: Shannon
After the graduation, I approached Kristy. "Look," I said, "my shoulder's really killing me, so I'm afraid I can't make it today."
"That's okay," she said. "Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday. I can't wait until I don't have to deal with these damn mood swings anymore."
I nodded. "Next come the food cravings."
"Ugh, don't remind me. If you see me trying to break into the SMS cafeteria, I'm ordering you to wrestle me to the ground, hog-tie me, and pour hot sauce down my throat."
"How about cod-liver oil?" I suggested, smiling.
"Deal," Kristy laughed. "Well, see you later, okay?"
"Okay," I agreed. As I walked back to Bart, I rubbed my shoulder.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" he asked.
I guess I have some explaining to do. You see, my shoulder's really been bothering me lately. I thought if I just took Ibuprofen, rubbed Icy-Hot on it, exercised more, and went to the chiropractor once a week, the pain would just go away. Well, naturally, it didn't, so I finally went to the doctor a few days ago. After running some tests, the doctor told me that I have a mild form of something called ankylosing spondylitis. I'm told that it's a bone disease that's inherited, although there's no record of it in my family's medical history, for some reason. The first time I'd ever heard of it was when Jason let me borrow this book of his called The Dirt, which was written by Mötley Crüe, one of his favorite bands. One of the things I'd read is that Mick Mars has it.
Anyway, it's like your bones and joints are slowly filling up with hot, quick-drying cement and pushing your spine forward, pushing you down to the ground. If the doctor tries to operate on any open spot between or inside your joints, it'll just grow back like a cut-off fingernail. When I first heard this, I was beyond horrified. I was ultimately convinced that I was going to have to spend the rest of my life walking around like a hunchback. That was when I found out that I have a mild—and I stress mild—form of the disease that would most likely stop in my mid-30s, and if I was lucky, I probably wouldn't have any long-term problems at all. In the meantime, I was told to exercise as often as possible—which also included two months of physical therapy, and I'd see the doctor again in late August—and I was also given some Vicodin. Now that I think about it, maybe my diagnosis was some sort of retribution for being such a stuck-up bitch when I first met Kristy, and for making fun of Louie, the Thomases' old collie, who had to be put down when we were in eighth grade. Shortly thereafter, I gave Kristy's family one of Astrid's puppies. (Astrid had been my Bernese mountain dog, and she's been gone for about three years now.) David Michael, Kristy's little brother, was so grateful that he named their dog after me, and I'm told that she was put down last fall. I still remember when Karen, Kristy's little stepsister, invited me and my friends to Louie's funeral. And let me tell you, on that day, being with Kristy's family, and seeing them grieving for that poor dog, I literally felt an inch tall.
"Wouldn't hurt," I said, "but first, I want to go home and change clothes. We can leave my car at the apartment, and take yours."
"Okay," Bart agreed. We got in our cars and returned home.
When we got home, I changed clothes and left a message on the Thomas-Brewers' answering machine, telling them I was on my way to the hospital. Then I packed a few things in a small suitcase: a toothbrush, some toothpaste, a clean outfit to wear home, some deodorant, my hair brush, and my Kindle with some of my favorite books on it.
"Ready?" Bart asked. I nodded. "Let's go."
As we drove to the hospital, I was practically wishing away my pain.
When we arrived, I signed in at the emergency room, then Bart and I sat down to wait. I know that kind of place has a reputation for being really busy, and the wait could be long, but there were only one or two other people in the waiting room when we arrived. A few minutes later, the nurse called my name and led me to Triage, where she checked my vital signs. After that, she took me to Exam One, where she told me to take off my shoes and socks, and the doctor would be with me shortly.
A few minutes later, Dr. Owens came in. She looks like Laura Innes, who played Dr. Kerry Weaver on ER. "Well, Shannon, what seems to be the trouble?" she asked.
"The pain in my shoulder has gotten worse. I took the last pill yesterday, and haven't had time to get down to the drugstore," I answered.
The doctor nodded, then did a brief exam of her own. The first thing she did was attach a couple of electrodes to my chest, under my top. "Wh...what are you doing? My heart's fine." This wasn't part of the procedure, was it?
"We're taking a brief measurement, just to be sure," she explained. A few minutes later, she detached the wires, then continued, "Well, your heart is fine, but we'll have to admit you for a couple of days. We'll see how you do with medication dripping into your veins. But don't worry—I'll write a new prescription and have five refills on it so you won't have to keep coming back every few days."
"Sounds like a plan."
After Dr. Owens left, the nurse returned with a hospital gown and socks, put the little plastic ID bracelet around my wrist, and left. I changed my clothes, then sat on the bed and covered my legs with the blanket that had been provided.
A few minutes later, the nurse returned with a large plastic bag. "I'm going to put your clothes in here, okay?" she told me.
"Okay," I said. "Could you also give it to my fiancé to take home?"
"Sure," she answered as she sealed the bag, then left the room again.
While she was gone, another nurse returned with some paperwork. I filled it out, sat back on the bed, and handed it to her as another nurse returned with an IV pole. She wiped my arm with a cotton ball and stuck a needle into the vein, then the nurses left.
A few minutes later, the doctor returned. "Your room's ready, Shannon," she said. "The nurses will be back in a few minutes to take you."
"Okay. Is Bart still here?"
"Would you like me to have a nurse get him?"
"Thanks."
"Okay." Dr. Owens left again, and a few minutes later, Bart and the nurse came in.
"Got the bag?" I asked.
He nodded and held it up. "I'll take these home and wash them for you," he said. "And don't worry, I've got the fabric softener that smells like ocean breeze."
"Okay," I said, managing a tiny smile, but inside, I was a wreck.
Bart stroked my hair. "Don't worry, baby," he said. "You'll be just fine. I'll keep an eye on your place and bring in your mail while you're here."
"What would I do without you?"
At that moment, two nurses returned with a gurney. The three of them helped me onto it, and we headed to the elevators. All the while, I was hoping everything would come out all right.
