The Neck

I dressed, put a book in my coat pocket in anticipation of a long wait at the emergency room, and walked to the hospital.

I was quickly ushered to the admissions desk. There are some benefits to looking freaky.

Within a few minutes, my shirt was removed and a doctor was poking and prodding my neck, asking questions about allergies, dental work, ear infections, recent traumas . . . all answered in the negative.

Another doctor, same questions, interested in my seeing inside my throat. I could barely open my mouth, but aahhhhhhh . . . no infections.

Another doctor, more questions, any history of intravenous drug use, heart disease, blood clots? No, no, and no.

I was certainly getting a lot of attention. In between doctors, I looked at a mirror. In the short time since I had left home, the swelling had increased substantially.

I now looked like a cartoon of a bullfrog holding its breath. A cartoon of a bullfrog as Dizzy Gillespie holding its breath.

The doctors conferred with me. There was some debate. Either I had a clot in my jugular—which would be very rare, and worth study!—or an infected lymph node. Either way, I was being admitted to the hospital for tests. I should expect to be there over the weekend, at least.

It was my weekend to be with the kids, and I had a lot of work to do. But there was no choice in the matter.

I called Lucy. She was worried sick about me. Don’t worry about the kids, she said. Are you going to be okay? Are you scared?

I wasn’t scared, really, and I felt fine. This was just, you know, very weird.

I was hooked to an IV for antibiotics and given a sonogram, an EKG, chest X-rays, a rectal exam and a CAT scan.

Whenever the doctors discussed my case amongst themselves, I was referred to as “the neck.” I wondered if this might become my new nickname, like a gangster—Jefferson the Neck.

By the time I was wheeled to a bed, it was too late for Lucy or the kids to visit. I got acquainted with my roommate, a gentle recovering junkie with one tooth and a bad limp.

My mother called, ready to hop on a plane to sit beside my bed. I’m fine, I reassured her. I just look strange. I’ll be out of here after the weekend. Mom talked, for over an hour, about relatives who have had infections at various times in the past.

I called the kids and Lucy to check in, and turned off the cell to save the charge. I found Easy Rider on television, and settled in to watch the last hour or so. I adjusted my arm to accommodate my IV, wondering how I would sleep with that needle in me.

Remember the redneck at the end of Easy Rider, the one who shoots Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda? I had forgotten this, but he had a kiwi-sized goiter on the side of his neck.

Lucky bastard, I thought, fingering my lump. Yours is so small.