I Got a Fever (and the Only Prescription is Hot Male Nurses)

It began as all good stories do: with waves of energy coasting up the body from thigh to neck, gradually flowing back and forth until the change in temperature was palpable. I became light-headed and weak.

I had a 104 fever.

The excitement surrounding this discovery can be boiled down to a few lines:
"Can we bring you in the morning? It's 2am and not a good time to drive."
"...."

Of course, my friends at school are well-versed in the proper protocol for such occasions. They have hailed many a cab with proper snacks at inconvenient times to drag me, sweatpants and all, to get checked out. I once had a first date at the HUP ER and let me tell you, the saline is an excellent aphrodisiac. (Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.)

Anyway, so I was fairly convinced I was going to die. (Not entirely, but I did think to myself "If I die on rt. 3 because my mother insists on driving the speed limit at 2:30am, I will haunt the shit out of these people.")

I was greeted at main campus by a sleeping guard.
disgruntled: "Are you here to see a patient?"
disheveled: "...I am one?"

You're probably wondering what kind of person goes on spontaneous 3am hospital trips.
My best guess? People who should not be allowed in hospitals.
They include: people trying to siphon off morphine. people trying to pull a plug. people unperturbed by a sleeping guard.

I attempt to open the door to the urgent care center only to discover it's been chemo-proofed. Bastards.
The other human gatekeeper "guarding" the door points at the button on the wall: "Enter". Ah yes. That would be it.

With spotty wifi, my sole source of amusement is the unnatural and honestly, unfair level of hotness of the male nurse tending to me. His appreciation of my manicure and book choice confirms my belief that he is the perfect male specimen.
A friend offers practical applications of hot murses: raise a patient's blood pressure, get the blood flowing, other things increasing in inappropriateness.

It is time for the standard chest x-ray, a test used by doctors for the most accurate scapegoating. With each hospital visit I am further convinced this "touch of pneumonia" is just my lung throwing a tantrum. (It never gets what it wants!) I am escorted by a kindly gentleman who I am sure prefers his interaction with 22-year-old girls to not involve wheelchairs. He does get to tell me to breathe though, which I imagine is slightly erotic. Though this is chest x-ray number one thousand I have managed to forget the no bra and jewelry rule. X-ray tech assists with the necklace and all that remains is the question of the bra. I hesitate and decide that yes, I can attempt this sans IV-occupied arm. How hard could it be?
... I sincerely apologize to every guy I ever laughed at.

I would also like to thank Forever 21 for making see-through tshirts that don't appear to be see-through until it is too late. Really spices up those late night chest x-rays.
Working around the IV takes longer than the actual procedure. Also, I have a bra hanging off my arm. Casual.  The tech tucks my see-through shirt self into the wheelchair with strategically-covering blanket. I'm sure this guy is thinking "I really don't need this right now." And I'm thinking "How x-rated can we get up in here?"

I return to base and decide the best (read: laziest) course of action is to replace the offending garment with one of those ever-so-titillating hospital gowns. I wonder aloud about asking the hot murse for assistance with said shirt removal. I then remember the public venue and oh, the fact that I am not in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I ask mom.

It is now 5am. I am awake because ERs are expressly designed to keep patients slightly on edge with periodic beeps, whistles, and scratchy-voiced announcements. I am surprised there isn't a circle of hell modeled after this. Side note: someone should really do a modern take on Inferno.

Another murse approaches and announces I need a second IV. These are not the kind of surprises one appreciates at 5am. He has kind eyes, so I allow him to fiddle around my arms without fidgeting and/or panic attack. He informs me of the blood spurting out of my hand in the same voice one would use to comment on the weather. I decide I like him.

A doctor comes by and throws around words like "sepsis" and "catheter". Realize I may be here for awhile and that they intend to do something terrible with my nether region.
Blood pressure is elevated: success!

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Check back next time for med student interaction, "rap of the lovesick sick kid", and other bits of amusement.