I’m vaguely aware of a pulse oximeter being clipped to my pointer finger, a thermometer placed under my tongue, a blood pressure cuff wrapped around my bicep.  The world takes on a sudden, sharp definition which pulsates with every pump of the sphygmomanometer. Needles jab at my eyelids and a dull ache thuds deep in my molars until the cuff loosens and the world grows fuzzy once again.

I am very, very nauseous.

Time passes indeterminately until I am raised to a sitting position.  My eyes open wide and immediately seek out my wife, our newborn son.  My vision is blinking like a strobe light; bile rises in my throat and tastes like defeat.  

“I don’t feel well.”

My voice is barely audible, so I try again.  I project.

“I don’t feel well!”

I take in my surroundings in order to judge who might possibly respond.  It’s the Emergency Room, I’m guessing… I count one white coat, three stethoscopes in total, and the neon white uniform of the orderly currently hauling me from a gurney to a treatment table.  

Not one of them is listening.

“I’m going to be sick…”

I trail off. I am at that point of weariness and pain where I simply do not care. I have stopped caring about propriety. I have stopped caring about being in control. I have stopped caring about making a mess.

I close my eyes and give up in a way that resembles an orgasm, that resembles release. It is also the exact opposite, though, and everything feels like I’m coming apart. Everything feels like I’m going mad. 

And then…it gets better. I can breathe; the nausea is abating; the pressure is lifting from my skull. I can see light at the end of this migraine, and it promises sweet relief.

I have also vomited directly on the orderly.

I haven’t just vomited on him, though. I’ve basically vomited through him.  I have essentially showered him with vomit, the brown tie-dye of his formerly-pristine white scrubs glaring proof that someone should have listened to me.

“GOD…DAMN…IT…”

Behind him, through the spider-webbed glass window of the swinging ER door, I glimpse the shining halo that is my wife’s blonde hair.  Her head is bent so her forehead nearly touches that of our infant, and I’m reminded of Duccio di Buoninsegna; of Madonna and Child.

“THESE…WERE…NEW!!!”

I don’t bother apologizing.