I’m home. I spent the last 14 hours in Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital, recovering from dining hall food.
I woke up at three in the morning with intense abdominal pain. I called Maggie in hysterical tears; she couldn’t understand a word I was saying, but apparently enough filtered through that she implored me to hang up and call 911, which I did.
A hospital is no place to get well. The glare of fluorescent lights, the constant din of the PA system, the clatter of crappy casters on linoleum tiles, the awkward angle at which the IV enters your arm, the helplessness you feel when you must ask permission to use the bathroom…
I was given non-Penicillin-derived antibiotics (thank you, medicalert bracelet!), lots of water, and, oddly, Coca-Cola.
In unrelated news, it’s been really interesting watching the puncture wound on my hand heal. It was pretty deep – at least 3mm – and yet as if by magic, a week later, it’s nearly gone.
update, March 3, 2002: The wound on my hand is still visible as a slight discoloration.