stomach ends. I lean back to rest my eyes. Better. I don’t want to deal with Justin anymore. I’d rather sleep.
***
“Mild hypoglycemia and moderate dehydration.” I wake to a deep voice. A line of tubing disappears into my hand. Wires lead from my chest to squiggles on a computer monitor. I’ve watched enough of Discovery Health Channel to know it is my heartbeat. An older man stands with his back to me at the foot of the bed, my bed, I guess. A stethoscope hangs around his neck. My parents sit on chairs in the corner. “She’ll wake up shortly and probably feel woozy and exhausted the rest of the day.”
The room spins. He’s got that right.
“Will she be okay?” Mom asks.
“Oh sure,” he chortles. “We will observe her the rest of the day. If she’s stable, she can be discharged this evening.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“It’s okay, Sarah,” Dad says. “It’s not your fault. The boy said she refused to eat.”
Justin. Of course he’d tell my parents this was my fault.
“Dehydration and a little low blood sugar can come on very fast in this heat, especially when you aren’t used to working in it,” the doctor offers the information to Mom as comfort. I’m sure it just makes her feel worse. “Now if it wasn’t for that boy, she would have been in much worse shape.” The doctor chuckles again. “Did you know he poured a Pixy Stick into her mouth while she was passed out?”
What? I don’t remember that.
“He’s a smart guy. He may have saved her from a seizure.”
Mom gasps. Great job, doc. You successfully gave her a new reason to manage me . Dad places his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “We’ll thank Justin. Maybe have him over for dinner?”
“No.” The word flies out of my mouth. All three turn toward me. Mom rushes to my side, grabbing my hand. I jerk my hand away from her. I don’t need her fakeness right now.
“Honey. You’re awake.”
“Obviously,” I say.
The doctor continues, “Another side effect you may notice is some additional attitude and aggression. She apparently hit that boy rather hard across his face when he carried her into the emergency room.” He winks at me. “If you could have heard what she yelled at that boy …”
“I can imagine.” Mom stands up from my side and glares at me as she crosses the room. She's given up fake appearances. Good.
“Of course, this all may just be a side effect of being a teenage girl, too.” He looks at me and winks. I don’t like him. I hate when people attribute actions to “being a teenager.” Anyone who views someone as a life stage instead of an individual with thoughts pisses me off.
“Excuse me?” a female voice says.
“Come on in, Esther.” The doctor pulls the curtain open and an older, plump nurse walks in with a small box.
“Hi, Sweetie.” She puts the box on my bed. “I just need to poke your finger to test your blood sugar, okay?”
I wince. I hate needles.
“It’ll be quick. Promise.” She puts a small little box against my middle finger. Click . A sharp dagger digs into my flesh. She squeezes out a drop of blood onto a small pink paper. “Done.” She places the paper into the machine. It beeps. “Seventy,” she says to the doctor. Then she turns back to me. “How about some juice?”
My mouth does feel dry. “Ok.” She leaves the room. Her steps are soft on the hard white floor.
“Well, Lucinda,” the doctor looks down at me. His white bushy eyebrows bounce as he speaks. “We’ll watch you closely, probably let you go home later tonight. How would you like that?” He pats my hand. I suppress the urge to ask him to stop. He turns to my parents. “She’s going to be just fine.”
“Oh thank you, Dr. Forts. Thank you so much.” Mom shakes his hand. She gives him too much credit.
I look down at the line in my hand, vaguely remembering a strong hand holding my arm down while a needle jabbed my skin.
“She needs a bolus, now.”
***
“Mild hypoglycemia and moderate dehydration.” I wake to a deep voice. A line of tubing disappears into my hand. Wires lead from my chest to squiggles on a computer monitor. I’ve watched enough of Discovery Health Channel to know it is my heartbeat. An older man stands with his back to me at the foot of the bed, my bed, I guess. A stethoscope hangs around his neck. My parents sit on chairs in the corner. “She’ll wake up shortly and probably feel woozy and exhausted the rest of the day.”
The room spins. He’s got that right.
“Will she be okay?” Mom asks.
“Oh sure,” he chortles. “We will observe her the rest of the day. If she’s stable, she can be discharged this evening.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“It’s okay, Sarah,” Dad says. “It’s not your fault. The boy said she refused to eat.”
Justin. Of course he’d tell my parents this was my fault.
“Dehydration and a little low blood sugar can come on very fast in this heat, especially when you aren’t used to working in it,” the doctor offers the information to Mom as comfort. I’m sure it just makes her feel worse. “Now if it wasn’t for that boy, she would have been in much worse shape.” The doctor chuckles again. “Did you know he poured a Pixy Stick into her mouth while she was passed out?”
What? I don’t remember that.
“He’s a smart guy. He may have saved her from a seizure.”
Mom gasps. Great job, doc. You successfully gave her a new reason to manage me . Dad places his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “We’ll thank Justin. Maybe have him over for dinner?”
“No.” The word flies out of my mouth. All three turn toward me. Mom rushes to my side, grabbing my hand. I jerk my hand away from her. I don’t need her fakeness right now.
“Honey. You’re awake.”
“Obviously,” I say.
The doctor continues, “Another side effect you may notice is some additional attitude and aggression. She apparently hit that boy rather hard across his face when he carried her into the emergency room.” He winks at me. “If you could have heard what she yelled at that boy …”
“I can imagine.” Mom stands up from my side and glares at me as she crosses the room. She's given up fake appearances. Good.
“Of course, this all may just be a side effect of being a teenage girl, too.” He looks at me and winks. I don’t like him. I hate when people attribute actions to “being a teenager.” Anyone who views someone as a life stage instead of an individual with thoughts pisses me off.
“Excuse me?” a female voice says.
“Come on in, Esther.” The doctor pulls the curtain open and an older, plump nurse walks in with a small box.
“Hi, Sweetie.” She puts the box on my bed. “I just need to poke your finger to test your blood sugar, okay?”
I wince. I hate needles.
“It’ll be quick. Promise.” She puts a small little box against my middle finger. Click . A sharp dagger digs into my flesh. She squeezes out a drop of blood onto a small pink paper. “Done.” She places the paper into the machine. It beeps. “Seventy,” she says to the doctor. Then she turns back to me. “How about some juice?”
My mouth does feel dry. “Ok.” She leaves the room. Her steps are soft on the hard white floor.
“Well, Lucinda,” the doctor looks down at me. His white bushy eyebrows bounce as he speaks. “We’ll watch you closely, probably let you go home later tonight. How would you like that?” He pats my hand. I suppress the urge to ask him to stop. He turns to my parents. “She’s going to be just fine.”
“Oh thank you, Dr. Forts. Thank you so much.” Mom shakes his hand. She gives him too much credit.
I look down at the line in my hand, vaguely remembering a strong hand holding my arm down while a needle jabbed my skin.
“She needs a bolus, now.”
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