August 1, Monday
“BLOOD PRESSURE is normal,” Dr. Tyson said.
Dr. Tyson is giving me a maintenance checkup, but I can’t stop thinking about Roberta’s revelation that I was talking to her on my phone when the accident happened.
“Pulse rate, normal.”
I mean, I have the public’s sympathy… Coma Girl has become a cottage industry… Sidney is looking into having me incorporated.
“Temperature is ninety-nine,” Nurse Gina said.
“A little high, but not unexpected. Still, I want her monitored every four hours for a change.”
Was that my hot shame registering on the thermometer? Because what would my adoring fans think when they found out I’d been a distracted driver when my Ford Escort hit Keith Young’s yellow Jaguar head on?
“Her cheeks do look pink,” Gina said.
Dr. Tyson made a frustrated noise. “It’s blush . Gina, explain to me why my coma patient is wearing makeup.”
“Her sister occasionally puts makeup on her.”
“I didn’t ask who, I asked why.”
“To cheer her up, I guess.”
“To cheer up the patient, or the sister?”
Ooh, good one, Dr. Tyson.
“It’s not hurting anything, is it? I think it’s kind of nice.”
“Skin color can be an indication of something abnormal, such as too little oxygen in the blood. Or a sudden bruise that could indicate a blood clot. Please arrange to have Ms. Kemp’s face cleaned.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Just to clarify, in Georgia, driving a car while holding a cell phone, eating a burrito, or putting on mascara isn’t against the law. But the District Attorney might see my multitask chatting as a mitigating circumstance. At least I hadn’t been texting while driving—which is against the law in the peach state, by the way. But I don’t have Bluetooth, so it wasn’t as if I’d had my hands on the steering wheel at two and ten o’clock position.
“What’s this?”
“It looks like an iPod, Dr. Tyson.”
“I know what it is, who put it on the bed?”
“I… don’t know.”
I was pretty sure Gina knew Dr. Jarvis had put it there, but she was protecting him. Good girl. Don’t get me wrong—I am sick to death of his playlist of classical music, but it had taken on a certain painful familiarity... like Google Ads.
“Pupils are—” Dr. Tyson stopped. “Hm… pupils are dilating. That’s… different.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?” the nurse asked.
It has to be good!
“Not so fast, Gina. You and Dr. Jarvis want so much for Ms. Kemp to wake up, you read too much into small things. The pupils are dilating, but they’re sluggish, which is better than fixed, but far from good.”
I was going to start calling her Dr. Downer.
“Respiratory rate, normal,” Dr. Tyson continued, her voice crisp. “What’s her weight?”
“Plus a half pound.”
Not getting much cardio in the coma unit. Audrey, Karen, Jill and I could all use a Zumba class.
“So the feeding tube is functioning well,” Dr. Tyson said. “Bowel movements?”
“Chart says every three or four days.”
You were wondering, weren’t you? Now you know. When you enter a coma, you say goodbye to every last shred of modesty.
“I.V. looks good. And urine looks clear, but let’s test it for traces of blood to make sure the catheter is comfortable. We don’t need a U.T.I. flare-up.”
No, we do not. For those of you who’ve never had a urinary tract infection, it’s like giving birth to a briar bush. Through your pee hole. I would be happy to coma through that.
“Make a note to change the urine bag more often, Gina. I have Ms. Kemp on diuretics to help with the swelling in her brain, and it’s not good for her bladder to get too full.”
“Will do, Doctor. How is the swelling?”
“No change, so let’s keep her fluids flowing.”
“I don’t suppose the insurance company changed their mind about paying for the experimental drug cocktail?”
“No.”
“What a shame.”
“There’s no guarantee it would work,” the doctor
“BLOOD PRESSURE is normal,” Dr. Tyson said.
Dr. Tyson is giving me a maintenance checkup, but I can’t stop thinking about Roberta’s revelation that I was talking to her on my phone when the accident happened.
“Pulse rate, normal.”
I mean, I have the public’s sympathy… Coma Girl has become a cottage industry… Sidney is looking into having me incorporated.
“Temperature is ninety-nine,” Nurse Gina said.
“A little high, but not unexpected. Still, I want her monitored every four hours for a change.”
Was that my hot shame registering on the thermometer? Because what would my adoring fans think when they found out I’d been a distracted driver when my Ford Escort hit Keith Young’s yellow Jaguar head on?
“Her cheeks do look pink,” Gina said.
Dr. Tyson made a frustrated noise. “It’s blush . Gina, explain to me why my coma patient is wearing makeup.”
“Her sister occasionally puts makeup on her.”
“I didn’t ask who, I asked why.”
“To cheer her up, I guess.”
“To cheer up the patient, or the sister?”
Ooh, good one, Dr. Tyson.
“It’s not hurting anything, is it? I think it’s kind of nice.”
“Skin color can be an indication of something abnormal, such as too little oxygen in the blood. Or a sudden bruise that could indicate a blood clot. Please arrange to have Ms. Kemp’s face cleaned.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Just to clarify, in Georgia, driving a car while holding a cell phone, eating a burrito, or putting on mascara isn’t against the law. But the District Attorney might see my multitask chatting as a mitigating circumstance. At least I hadn’t been texting while driving—which is against the law in the peach state, by the way. But I don’t have Bluetooth, so it wasn’t as if I’d had my hands on the steering wheel at two and ten o’clock position.
“What’s this?”
“It looks like an iPod, Dr. Tyson.”
“I know what it is, who put it on the bed?”
“I… don’t know.”
I was pretty sure Gina knew Dr. Jarvis had put it there, but she was protecting him. Good girl. Don’t get me wrong—I am sick to death of his playlist of classical music, but it had taken on a certain painful familiarity... like Google Ads.
“Pupils are—” Dr. Tyson stopped. “Hm… pupils are dilating. That’s… different.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?” the nurse asked.
It has to be good!
“Not so fast, Gina. You and Dr. Jarvis want so much for Ms. Kemp to wake up, you read too much into small things. The pupils are dilating, but they’re sluggish, which is better than fixed, but far from good.”
I was going to start calling her Dr. Downer.
“Respiratory rate, normal,” Dr. Tyson continued, her voice crisp. “What’s her weight?”
“Plus a half pound.”
Not getting much cardio in the coma unit. Audrey, Karen, Jill and I could all use a Zumba class.
“So the feeding tube is functioning well,” Dr. Tyson said. “Bowel movements?”
“Chart says every three or four days.”
You were wondering, weren’t you? Now you know. When you enter a coma, you say goodbye to every last shred of modesty.
“I.V. looks good. And urine looks clear, but let’s test it for traces of blood to make sure the catheter is comfortable. We don’t need a U.T.I. flare-up.”
No, we do not. For those of you who’ve never had a urinary tract infection, it’s like giving birth to a briar bush. Through your pee hole. I would be happy to coma through that.
“Make a note to change the urine bag more often, Gina. I have Ms. Kemp on diuretics to help with the swelling in her brain, and it’s not good for her bladder to get too full.”
“Will do, Doctor. How is the swelling?”
“No change, so let’s keep her fluids flowing.”
“I don’t suppose the insurance company changed their mind about paying for the experimental drug cocktail?”
“No.”
“What a shame.”
“There’s no guarantee it would work,” the doctor
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