A few days ago I managed to burn the roof of my mouth on a baked potato. Please don’t ask for details, it’s embarrassing. If that’s not bad enough, the burn turned into rather nasty aphthous stomatitis. Mouth ulcer.

            By Friday I couldn’t eat, because the tiniest nick caused so much pain I wanted cut off my head. After getting my boss’ okay to leave the bakery early I went to a close-by pharmacy with an urgent care.

 

            This particular store refers to this as a “minute clinic.” There I waited over two hours to be seen by the solitary, overtaxed nurse practitioner.

 

            “Why am I seeing you today?”

 

            “My mouth hurts.”

 

            While she entered my particulars into her data base, I went on to explain how I’d injured myself and how much it hurt. 

 

            What I expected next was that she would look at my poor mangled mouth, write a prescription and send me to the pharmacy counter to have it filled. And, of course, that’s not what happened.

 

            She had to take my vitals.

 

            “Blood pressure is a little high, but pain will do that.”

 

            Then she listened to my heart for a full minute.

 

            “Have you had heart problems?”

 

            “No.”

 

            “Your heart rate is too low. It’s between 40 and 44.”

 

            “I work out. It’s always been low.”

 

            “This is dangerously low.”

  

            After scaring me into thinking I would soon be corpse du jour, she informed me that she was sending me to ER and no way would she allow me to drive.

 

            “Do you have dizziness or pain.”

 

            “Yes. I haven’t eaten all day because my mouth hurts.”

            “I’m more concerned for your heart. They will give you lidocaine at the hospital.”

 

            At her insistence I called my husband to share my news. I could hear the controlled terror in his voice. Then I sat for another forty minutes until he arrived. He took me to the hospital close to our house. Another forty minutes of evening wasted. 

 

            “You feeling okay, honey,” he asked.

 

 

            “No. I’m starving and my mouth hurts.”

 

            When we reached the ER, I was quickly ushered to an examination room, changed out of my icing-crusted uniform into one of those famed hospital numbers of song and story.

 

            This time the nurse hooked me up to a heart monitor, automatic sphygmomanometer and stuck little rubber contacts all over me to prepare for an EKG. Then the interrogation began.

 

            “What meds are you taking? Any allergies?”

 

            I answered each question to the best of my ability. Then the doctor came in and asked more questions.

 

            “Are you having any pain?

”

            “My mouth hurts.”

 

            By then, I’d played “Who’s on First, What’s on Second” with at least four professionals.

 

            The doctor shined her little flashlight in my open mouth. “Yep. I advise using Anbesol. I don’t have any so you’ll have to go to Walmart.”

 

            Then she told me she was going to hook me up to an IV, take some blood and check my electrolytes.

 

            The whole ordeal took another two hours culminating with the doctor telling me everything looked great and that I just have a low heart rate.

 

            “I’m sending you home.”

 

            As the nurse wrapped up the visit she asked me if I had any pain.

 

            “My mouth hurts.”