Page 34 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

Not my problem.

Some kid cries a few chairs down from me, complaining about their stomach hurting. Mine does, too, but I’m toughing it out. I wasn’t going to come here—Urgent Care—but I keep throwing up blood. My knee bounces, and the sterile smell mixed with the woman to my right’s perfume doesn’t help my nausea. The lady behind the desk lets the phone ring and ring, too busy chatting with her coworker.

God, I hate these places.

You’d think people in the medical field would give a fuck about the patients, but they don’t. It’s just another job. Like this is JC Penny, and it sucks to be you that you took off the tag before trying on that blouse. I rub my stomach, fighting the urge to wince, and glance at the mounted clock. I’ve been here for two hours. Two hours of this kid hurling, smelling this nasty air, and internally bitch slapping myself for coming alone. These people might just kill me. No one knows where I am.

I couldn’t sleep last night and watched this documentary about a surgeon who implanted plastic airpipes into his patients. They all died believing this doctor would save their lives. My teeth chatter as a chill works its way through my body. It’s already cold as hell outside, why don’t they have a heater in here? People aresickfor fuckssake.

I wait another fifteen minutes before I can’t take it anymore. Hobbling over to the counter, I stand there, waiting for the front lady to acknowledge me.

“Can I help you?” she asks before pressing a button on the phone.

“I checked in over two hours ago. Elijah Madden.”

Smacking on her wad of gum, she turns to the computer and, I’m assuming, looks my name up. “Should be soon.”

“Thanks,” I murmur and go back to my chair.

Another hour passes, I throw up more bloody bile in the restroom, and finally, a nurse calls me back. He checks my blood pressure, then has me stand on a scale. I weigh 146lbs now. Fuck, I’ve lost a shit ton of weight. Sluggishly stepping off the scale, I follow the nurse into an empty examination room. He goes through the run-of-the-mill questions.

Why am I here? How long have I had my symptoms? Do I do drugs or smoke?

After I answer his questions, he hands me a urine cup and leaves, and I sit on the hard bed thing.

It’s about 4 pm, which means Phoenix will be at soundcheck. I want to text him that I’m here in case I’m murdered, but I doubt he’ll even see the text. My lips are dry, so I lick them. A fresh wave of nausea hits, but I breathe through it, grinding my teeth. I piss in the cup, seeing the little boy finally getting called back before going back to the room. Several minutes later, a knock hits the door before it opens. I eye the doctor skeptically as he strolls in with his stupid clipboard and God complex.

“How are you feeling?” he chirps.

I almost laugh. “Terrible,” I say dryly.

“I’ll bet. Your urine shows high levels of amphetamines and opioids. It says here, you don’t use.”

He’s already judging me, looking at me like I’m a junkie. “I have a prescription,” I grind out, nostrils flaring and my stomach spasming.

He hums, writing down something. “And how long have you been vomiting blood?”

“Few weeks,” I lie because I don’t want to tell him that this has happened before.

“This sort of thing shouldn’t be left untreated. You should have come in the first time it happened.”

“I’ve been on the road.”

“There are hospitals and urgent cares all over the country.” Fuck this guy, man.

“I just need some medicine. I’ve been taking antacids, but they aren’t helping.”

He jots something else down and then says, “All we can do here is perform an ultrasound. Anything else must be scheduled through your primary physician, or you’ll need to go to the ER.”

“Okay.”

I listen to him yap for a few more minutes about the risks of taking my medicines together. Then he leaves to find the ultrasound person. I don’t actually have a prescription for my pain medicine, but he doesn’t need to know that. And I only take it when I’m hurting everywhere. For the next thirty minutes, I get an ultrasound, throw up again, and wait for the doctor. When he comes back, he tells me that he can’t see anything, but considering all my symptoms, he believes I have a stomach ulcer. He recommends I go to the ER since I threw up several times.

Instead of going, because Irefuse, I text my aunt.

Venmo-ing you some cash. Get it fixed.

I leave Urgent Care, order an Uber, and search Google to see what else can help me.

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