Diary: Wild Goose Chase

I woke up to beeping this morning. I could’ve sworn I had turned off my phone to ensure an uninterrupted night of quiet. I rolled onto my belly and karate chopped the shit out of my phone’s screen. It was blank. See? I knew I turned it off.

The beeping persisted. It was my insulin pump; I was all out of juice. I rolled out of bed, untangling my feeties from the flat sheets. My head still felt foggy from my cold. I bet Satan coughed on me. I walked to the kitchen, toes curling on the cold tile, and opened the fridge for my vial on insulin. I plucked it from the door, and it was just like that one scene from A Christmas Story: I dropped that shit. The bottle shattered. The scent of insulin filled the air (imagine the sterile smell of a hospital room). “AWW, JIMMINY CRACKPIPES!” I hollered while slamming the fridge shut. I would’ve done a river dance on the shards if it would undo my fuck up.

My mom sent a Skype message. “Jecca, are you okay?”

NO! “Yeah, I can’t talk right now. I have to leave soon.”

I took a whore bath, skipped breakfast, and reserved a Zipcar for the next three hours. Nissan. A real piece of shit car…with Jersey plates. But it would do.

I’m an army brat and have Tricare coverage (thank you, Pops) so I sped over to my local army hospital, but guess what? NO ONE WAS THERE! TRAINING HOLIDAY! Also there isn’t an ER at this hospital. I see why the soldiers call it “Kill Row” instead of “Kimbrough.” I should’ve stabbed myself in the leg to prove that not having an emergency department on a military installation is about as smart as shoving your dick in a pencil sharpener. But I didn’t want to give the only soul working the front desk a panic attack, so my blade stayed in its place on my hip. Plus I didn’t want to be stabbed…again.

I drove the 15 miles to St. Agnes Hospital in 12 minutes where these women in black robes took my vital signs and called me things like “my child” and “sweetheart.” I would’ve been smitten with these old ladies, but they couldn’t write me a script so they were about as interesting as a whore after you’ve fucked her twice. I told one I only believed in god “just in case.” If Hell is real I’m one step closer to its fiery gates. The nuns took my shenanigans well, but I suppose they wanted me out of the waiting room before I started speaking in tongues or something because they stuffed me into a triage room. I fucked off on my phone for a bit (extended my Zipcar reservation by an hour) before a balding doctor came in and wrote out a script for insulin. I could tell he was relieved I wasn’t a junkie scrounging about for narcotics. Merry Christmas.

I had about an hour and twenty minutes left before I had to return the car. I booked it to the nearest Rite Aid, script in hand. I swear I drove behind every 18 wheeler and senior citizen on the 10 minute drive there. I wondered if I would get into a lot of trouble if I drove on the sidewalks. Female, Asian drivers MUST get off with an easier sentence for that sort of shit since we can’t drive and don’t know any better. I bet it happens ALLA TIME! …no Crazy Taxi antics from Jessica this day though.

I ran into the Rite Aid where I was greeted by a mouthy and rude goth chick. “I have to call the doctor to make sure the script is real. It’ll take 30 to 45 minutes.”

Please tell me why I’d have a fake script for fucking INSULIN?! “Okay, I’ll wait here.”

I walked through the Rite Aid about six times. Christmas is over so everything with snowflakes on it is half-off, and Valentine’s Day hearts reign supreme in the Hallmark aisles. I’m not sure if I should be disgusted by that or not. I bought a Coke Zero to settle my rumbling stomach and sat down next to a display with brochures about STI’s. Apparently you can’t call them sexually transmitted diseases anymore because it sounds bad. They’re infections now. To a chick who wants to go into the medical field, they both sound gross. Frankly, I think venereal diseases should be called “steamed crotch juices” or something like that so people don’t fornicate with the infected and expose the rest of the population.

Anyway… Gothic Gretta called my name over the intercom and informed me that my insurance wouldn’t cover my insulin and I’d have to hash out $270 for a 100 mL vial of Humalog.

ARE YOU FUCKING ME?! “Are you fucking me?”

If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s my health insurance from good ol’ Uncle Sam. “Umm, no. But you can call your insurance to see if there’s a way we can fix this.” I sat down next to the STI brochures again. I wanted to blow my nose all over the pages covered with photos of genital warts. If I had had explosive diarrhea, I would’ve dropped trough and shit all over the waiting area. No corner would’ve been spared of a righteous speckling of shit. Fortunately, I did not have the trots. I whipped out my phone, called Tricare, and spoke with a nice lady named Wanda who said the pharm techs were idiots (that made me laugh). Wanda said I was golden and asked if she could speak with Goth chick. I tried to pass the phone. Gothic Gretta said she couldn’t speak with anyone over the phone unless if she directly called them. Wanda called her an idiot again. I said Gothic Gretta is the reason why I wanted to dump a wheelchaired man onto the freeway. We both laughed. Wanda gave me a number that would set everything straight.

Thirty minutes later I was out of the pharmacy, drugs in hand, on my way to the car. I got in…and the shitmobile wouldn’t start. I was late in returning it. Forget dumping a handicapped man into oncoming traffic. I wanted to stomp deformed children. I called Zipcar, told them to turn on my damned hoopdie so I could get it back to school, and drove it like I stole it. There was an Indian boy waiting for the car when I got back to campus. I could tell he wanted to say something. “Dude. Don’t. I just had a field day that involved the army, nuns, a goth, and a trip to the emergency room.” I held up my wrist so he could see my ER admittance bracelet. He raised his eyebrows, nodded his head, and clapped his hands once. “You’re good, girl.”

I walked my ass up the hill to my apartment where I am now eating some leftovers from last night. I went to my buddy Matt’s house yesterday for Christmas dinner and his mom sent me home with… a lot. This is some hella good food… makes everything all right in the world. It’s the little things in life.

3 thoughts on “Diary: Wild Goose Chase

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