A few weeks ago my cousin was sharing with me her recent ER visit. It was the typical story you hear from the ER... long lines, no sense of urgency from staff, surrounded by drug abusers... you know. She had messed up her hand pretty bad, and it wasn't but many hours later that she was finally tended to and sent home. She gave me some, what I thought was, excellent advice.
"Anytime you need to go to the ER, when you check in tell the that you are having chest pains or short of breath."
Little did I know that advice would come in handy so soon. It wasn't but that night that I woke up with awful pain. (Note: Ever since Emi was born, I have been suffering from this awful pain. I've never done anything about it because it would always happen in the middle of the night, and I was never in the mood for an ER visit). I suffered through the pain all night, all morning (while attending my Grandma's funeral), and as my hubby drove me back to Des Moines (where the real doctor's practice). As we entered the ER I announced "I'm having chest pains!"
And just like that, I bypassed the long line of uninsured people, drug abusers, and uninsured drug abusers, and they hooked me up to the EKG machine. I sat proudly hooked up to that machine thinking about all the losers sitting out in the waiting room. That was until they determined I wasn't having a heart attack, and they sent me out to the waiting room. With the uninsured people. And drug abusers.
A few hours later, they wheeled me down for some testing and my pain disappeared. Figures. After my testing they found out I had enough gall stones to landscape a small garden (or perhaps my dad said that). And then, after my pain was completely gone, they offered me some pain medication. Ugh. And then my mom rubbed it in by reminding me that I just paid for an EKG I didn't need.
So, my friends, my advice to you: If you go to the ER, tell them you're short of breath. After all, that should be easier to fake, right?
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