This morning i rush off to the dentist at 8:45am, crossing the bay on bart, so of course i didn’t get enough sleep, nor eat breakfast (that’s leading somewhere, i’m not just complaining). Dr. Gail Jang checks my bad tooth with an electric probe, declares it DOA. Need a root canal.
Now, a bit of background is in order. I am a medical wimp, to the marrow. Talk to me about aneurisms, decapitation, amputation, i’m likely to get light-headed. When, for a blood test, a clinic worker takes four drops of blood from my fresh-pricked finger, i feel faint.
So i’m trying to make an appointment with an endodontist for a root canal tomorrow, Dr. Gail’s receptionist is on the phone with Dr. Wong’s receptionist. I’m thinking, “dead nerve, breaking down inside my tooth.” Start leaning on the counter. Not enough. Remy looks up from the phone, exclaims something—fuzzily in a low contralto quite uncharacteristic of her—as i slide towards the floor. Except i don’t remember the sliding. I do remember hitting my butt. Everyone’s suddenly there, hoisting me onto Remy’s office chair. Alarmed.
I’m a boy. I shrug it off, fine. I’ll sit for a second & be fine. Ok, see, i can stand up. And quickly sit back down.
Dr. Gail calls a paramedic, takes my blood pressure, 86/palp, i guess that’s really low. I wait a minute, assure Remy i can make it the 5 steps to the waiting room so she can have her chair back. As i’m walking over, the paramedics three enter. “Hi.” “Um hi. Who are we here for?” “Me,” sitting down, finally. Blood pressure taken again, again. Oxygen.
My thought at this moment is of the Oxygen Bar, on Valencia St., where they play trance music & people pay $25-40 to breathe from oxygen tanks.
Two more paramedics arrive, three leave, a very nice Irishman does all the talking. Blood pressure, again, questions of diabetes (no), low blood pressure (see above), breakfast (no). Stand up? Sure, ok i’m sitting down again now. It comes out that i’m a medical wimp. Oh, lots of people have that, see blood & they feint. How about we check your blood sugar in the ambulance? & maybe we should drive you to SF General for you to rest there.
Ok, blood sugar, but you know finger pricks make me light-headed too. & i don’t have insurance, so i’d rather not ride in the ambulance or recoup in a pay-by-the-minute bed.
The nice Irishman understands. Not only does he understand, he offers to take down only my name, no address. No bill to be mailed, thus. So i consent to the blood sugar test in the ambulance & two more blood pressure readings.
At this point, a non sequitur, in that the other paramedic still present knows my friend, former Voluta Vox accordionist Lisa Ekstrom. Tell her hi for me, he requests. I forgot his name. I always do.
Finally i’m on my way with a prescription for sugar & coffee to get the sugar up & the heart moving.
The rest of the day was anti-climactic, though.