title

Dedicated to Gimissung in an attempt to show her just how long a story can be dragged out. LOL

I always address the Wright-Patterson AFB gate guards when I enter the facility. For one thing it's polite and two it's a small gesture of good will for someone that has a firearm strapped to their side and might want to invoke a power trip at any moment on short bald guys. Plus eye contact and a willingness to acknowledge they are human beings with a dull job probably will make them less inclined to search your vehicle. I even inform them I'm headed to the base hospital for the Mrs. whose welfare they express sympathy hoping for her quick recovery.

This trip to the hospital does not repeat the mistakes of last time when we parked as far from the emergenecy roon as you can get and still be in Clara Barton territory. The clerk who admits us does not need my ID for anything using the spouse's credentials and I receive my first taste of the night of my importance in the scheme of things.

The waiting room has about half a dozen people waiting their turn. Two of them are wearing surgical masks. The flu scare is alive and thriving. I tend to operate on the presumption if God wants me sick He has any number of opportunities but usually puts me through more interesting trials and tribulations. The room clears rather quickly and Ruth is called to the back room and I am about to learn a thing or two about my partner.

I knew some of the history being taken and I monitor the exchange of info. Then the clerk asks the question at 11:45 am that sets many events in motion and makes Saturday at work a day of infamy.

"You stopped taking your blood pressure medicine?"

"Yes."

"How long has it been?"

My ear drums tingle in expectation of the words two weeks.

"Two months."

Huh!!!!!

Two months. TWO MONTHS!!!!! Is she out of her mind?!?! If the clerk heard a Tim the Tool Guy Taylor growl it's ignored as he writes his notes. I begin glaring at my little Delilah and about three or four incidents of similar misleadings mostly related to headaches and marriage benefits come to mind. I'll fix her. She will rue this day by thunder.

I do the meanest thing I can think of. I whip out my cell phone and call partner Tonya at work. She's there until midnight (yes I remember typing 12:45 on last entry but I corrected it) so at 11:45 pm Friday night I'm on the phone telling Tonya in no uncertain terms that Ruthie has pulled a Richie and stopped her meds. Has she learned NOTHING from my close acqauintance with the mortal kind? Why can't she emulate my good points? Recall my remarks in part one about wife/husband resemblances. I grump that if she wants to be ME so badly she could start by losing most of her hair. That was the second meanest thing I said to her that night. The meanest was that that if she wants to work in the medical field she should start with her own health. If I know Tonya--she will make MY life miserable by constant lectures on keeping a better eye on Ruth and her health. I in turn will pass on the tough love to Ruth and the guilt trips will keep her humble. Sweet revenge is cold and bitter sometimes and I like to suffer as well as mete out punishment. This hurts me more then you dear----blah blah blah.

Ruth is loaded into a wheelchair and we roll on through the very workplace area where the doctors were working on me when I had my heart attack. A sense of deja vu and a push from the Drama Queen makes me announce this return to the Golden Age to an unlistening audience. It finally sinks in that the medical professionals have and are and continue to leave me out of the loop here. I am asked no questions, insights or opinions (unless I interject one and I notice a dismal lack of pens scratching across the paperwork). It's like I'm the last comment on a Litnet thread that suddenly dies midstream and new forums grow from dead remarks.

She is put on a bed and we are left alone for a bit. The lack of personal attention is actually reassuring. Means the Long Suffering One probably is going to be okay. X-rays are taken, more people come by and ask questions and take more information. I am getting a feel for what will happen. They will lecture her on not taking her meds, issue her some and send us home.

No lectures--I get a raised eyebrow from one doctor when I attempt to move him in this direction.

Issued prescriptions--not tonight--or the next night.

Send us home--Nope. Keeping Ruth as a guest of Uncle Sam.

No one cared where I was going. Ruth is amazed at being made to stay over for an undetermined time. I'm delighted--I get the computer to myself for some extra hours. Also that bag of Combo chips sitting on the kitchen table. I still haven't eaten yet and the hospital cafeteria closed hours ago. Plus sleep is becoming a problem. As the clock ticks on I count the hours of chasing Morpheus available versus the work day ahead and realize tomorrow evening is really going to bite.

The conclusion is that they believe Ruth is fine. A heart attack has NOT taken place but they wish to do a stress test and monitor her for awhile. All is well--God is still good.

I begin to whimper. Ruth takes pity and lets me go. It's 2:30 am. I depart, go home, feed the pets, check the computer, chat just a tiny bit with a friend online then hit the pillow at 3:30 am setting my alarm for 6:50 and the very long Saturday.