I walk into the ER to check in. Two women sit behind desks. They have friendly faces and seem genuinely kind.

“Are you checking in?” says one.

“Yes. I’m having chest pain.”

“Have you experienced this kind of pain before,” asks the medical person sitting next to the woman checking me in. I know, I do not appear as if anything is wrong. I look normal on the outside. Nothing seemingly reveals that it feels like I’m burning from the inside out in my chest, unless perhaps, you know me well. I’m good at masking my feelings and pain.

“Oh, yes, multiple times,” I reply as the other assistant attaches a band around my wrist. “EKGs never turn up anything. I think it’s probably stress and anxiety.”

“Okay,” says the other woman, assuredly. “You’re all checked in. Have a seat in the lobby, and they will call you right away.”

“Can I go to the restroom first?” I ask.

“No,” they’re going to call you immediately because it’s chest pain.”

She’s right. I hear my name. A female medical assistant ushers me into the ER. Before I sit down to have vitals taken, I ask to go to the restroom.”

“No, I’m sorry you can’t. There’s a procedure we need to follow. We have to time everything because you’re having chest pain. The EKG won’t take long at all.”

I’ve had EKGs in the past, and they weren’t exactly short. But I get it. In case I’m having a freaking heart attack, which I’m certain I’m not. While she’s taking my BP, a male assistant joins us. I watch wearily as he puts on a pair of blue, squeaky sounding rubber gloves. BP is taken. I try to see the numbers but can’t because I’m bleary eyed and turn my attention away. Again I ask to go to the restroom.

“I’m sorry, but we need to do the EKG first,” the male assistant tells me. “It will be really quick.”

I follow the male assistant who takes me to another very small area, and I’m instructed to lie down on the stretcher/bed thingy. He applies all the little pads where they need to go. I’m wondering if he’s checking out my tattoos. At least I didn’t have to completely disrobe, yet why do I always get the cute, young male assistants to do the damn EKGs?

It’s the fastest EKG ever. Literally, it’s over in a couple of minutes. He removes all the wires and pads and tells me I can now go to the restroom, points me in the right direction. Thank God, because I really have to pee.

I go back out into the lobby and wait. Pretty soon, a physican comes to get me, and again, I’m taken to another small exam room. He asks about my symptoms, blah, blah, blah. My chest still hurts, but it’s not as bad as a couple of nights ago. The physician is masked, but he has kind eyes and seems to listen. He tells me he wants to run some labs and an x-ray. I’m glad they’re at least making sure the pain isn’t related to my heart. Though I don’t think it is, I can’t help but be a little worried, and it’s nice to have someone provide care when I’m worried and not sure what the hell is happening to my body. I feel old.

I go back out to the lobby, and no less than a few minutes later, another male assistant takes me back for an x-ray. I have never had an x-ray like this. I sit in a chair, and he puts a board behind my back. There is a huge, mobile machine that he adjusts, and click, the x-ray is taken. Cool. I didn’t have to remove anything. Best EKG and chest xray ever, I think to myself, ignoring the dull ache in my stupid chest. I again return to the lobby. Before long, the phlembotomist calls my name for the blood draw. Fun. Not fun. I tell him that they always use a butterfly needle because I have tiny veins. He looks at the veins in my right arm.

“No kidding. Tiny, tiny veins.”

Yes. And I am probably not very well hydrated so I’m hoping for the best. The phlembotomist inserts the needle slowly into my arm then pushes up on the needle. Ow. I’ve never had anyone push the needle in that way, but he gets a vein, and I can see the blood steadily flowing into the little tube, not dribbling, like a dried up riverbed. I ask why so many tubes. He says he takes extra just in case. Oh joy.

Eventually, I meet with the physician. Everything looks normal. My heart is fine. I knew that. The culprit of the chest pain remains unknown. I ask if the pain will just go away. The physician suggests I get a stress test after meeting with my primary care doctor, which isn’t until next April. Hmm. I’m left to believe that the chest pain is related to stress and anxiety. If I hadn’t been recommended to go to the ER by the triage nurse I spoke with on the phone, I wouldn’t have gone.

Later in the evening, the pain has subsided. Despite not wanting to drive to the ER, I’m glad I did, if for nothing else than peace of mind. No heart issues. Occasionally, I feel a twinge, then reassure myself that everything is okay. Just slow slown. Just breathe. The thought of going anywhere today makes my heart race and head spin. I’m tired, exhausted. I think my body literally could not do more last week. I pushed through the day on Wednesday, despite the pain in my chest. Thursday and Friday, I called in sick. Yesterday was the ER day. I am resting as much as possible this weekend, although a phone call with an old friend that I hadn’t talked to in a year was a bit triggering.

I’m okay. Just slow down. Just breathe.

There are two more weeks left until the winter break, at which time, I’ll have nearly one month off of work. I do not know how I will get through the next two weeks, except to grit my teeth and bear it, as the saying goes. It is hard to give to others when you have nothing left to give. So be it. There is a staff holiday party, a potluck. More work. Luckily I bought an apple pie on Wednesday in preparation for the other holiday party I missed, another pot luck. Who does pot lucks anymore, anyway? As if we’re not already tired from a long, busy semester.

Two more weeks till freedom. Temporary freedom. But freedom, nonetheless. Oh to get to the other side.