Page 14 of You're So Vine
ChapterFive
AVA
This is ridiculous. Why the hell is Doc Wilson making all this fuss? Calling the paramedics, for Pete’s sake. I fainted – that’s it, that’s all. Always had low blood pressure and a low pulse. Comes from being athletic. Okay, I don’t always faint, for sure, but I haven’t eaten a lot today and I had a couple of drinks, and I was giving it my all on the dance floor, so…
I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
“Is this all absolutely necessary?” I ask the male paramedic.
The female paramedic is driving, so my guy here has been assigned to check my vitals and then interrogate me with a million questions. Did I have any unusual sensations prior to the event? Was my heart rate erratic? Any pain? Any bleeding? Am I on medication? Am I diabetic? What did I eat? What did I drink? If a train leaves a station…
“I just fainted,” I say. “Really.”
He gives me a tolerant smile. He’s used to patients being stubborn.
“Doc Wilson seems to think it’s worth checking you out more thoroughly. You sure you don’t have any underlying conditions that might have caused you to pass out?”
You mean, like the fact I’ve been exhausted for months? But who needs to know that? Not this guy, for sure. I’ll use the time-honored Durant deflection tactic and throw the question back to him.
“Do you think I have any underlying conditions?”
“That’s way above my pay grade,” he says.
I hate it when people use the deflection tactic on me.
The ambulance turns a corner and slows right down. Guess we’ve arrived.
Suddenly, I’m panicking. I do not like hospitals. Dad was in and out last year with his heart condition, but that’s not the main reason I don’t want to be here. I don’t want people poking and prodding me and maybe finding things that are bad. I don’t want to know why I’m exhausted, and I don’t want anyone else to know, either. I want to be back at the wedding, dancing with Cam.
Cam. Thank God. He’s on his way. At least, I hope he is.
I’m out of the ambulance, into a wheelchair and into the hospital ER – this team is as efficient as a NASCAR pit crew. I hear the words “syncope” and “Doc Wilson,” and now a nurse is in charge of my wheels, and in two minutes I’m on a bed in a cubicle, curtains whisked shut around me, my vitals being checked yet again. This is the worst combination of tedious and terrifying. Where is Doc Wilson? Where is Cam?
“Okay, then, Little Missy, let’s see what’s up.”
Doc bustles in and behind him is Cam. I’m sorelieved to see them both but also instantly anxious. Why was Doc so worried he had to send me here? And Cam – he said he wanted to start over, but we only got to dance for, like, five minutes before I collapsed on him. Pretty sure his idea of starting over wouldn’t have included a medical emergency,ifthis is an emergency, which I refuse to believe.
Cam looks anxious, too, but there’s also a small smile on his face.
“Little Missy?” he says.
I glare at Doc. “My dad’s nickname for me. Which I hate.”
Doc ignores me. He’s reading the chart, his face serious. I’m anxious again.
Cam draws up the one chair in the cubicle. In this compact space, he takes up a chunk of room. And he looks about as happy to be here as I feel.
“This sucks,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Small smile again.
“I usually have to make up some excuse to get out of socializing,” he says. “Shelby can’t give me shit this time.”
“Oh, God – I’ve ruined Shelby and Nate’s wedding!”
I want to put a pillow over my face.
“Not at all,” says Doc, slotting the chart back. “Bar’d been drunk pretty much dry anyhow. Party was coming to its natural end.”
