I knew this was going to be more interesting than most heart catheterizations when the mic’d up voice behind the glass asked about RN Erin’s “booty call.” “What? Was that God?” I asked no one in particular, lying flat on my back in a glorious state of conscious sedation. Turns out while under the influence of fentanyl, I believe God is an eye-rolling, smack-talking hospital technician named Alesha. (She is not.) “Girl, it’s BUDDY call, not booty call,” she laughs. “But you know we’re going to run booty into the ground now.” RN Max concurs, his smiling hazel eyes peering above a teal mask. “Erin’s still in training and needs…
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Heartache
I don’t want to do this again. The first time nearly killed me. But with matters of the heart, it’s best not to delay. Apparently, I need a valve job. Turns out my already-prolapsed mitral valve is floppy, won’t fully close and spits excess blood backward into my left atrium causing stress on my heart. No question that this – “mitral valve regurgitation” – leads to congestive heart failure, which slowly did in my parents. Upon hearing the news, my old Florida friend put the onus squarely where it belonged. “I think, without question, you can blame Donald Trump for this,” Lorelei emailed. “His existence in the presidency increases the…
