My Dude was writhing in pain.  Seven hours in an ER, and not only did we not have answers, but the hospital was eerily deserted.  Every so often, a small vial with the words, "drink me" written across it would appear on the counter next to my Dude's stretcher, that would help the pain, but there was no sign of how the vial got there.  Each time I ventured to  the nurse's station, it was empty.  "Hello, " I would call out.  "Is anybody here?" 

"Hello? Is anybody here," echoed back to me.

Late that night, an orderly, who bore a striking resemblance to a rabbit,  rushed in and informed us that my Dude was being admitted.  "Oh, my, we'll be late, we'll be late," cried the orderly, as he pushed my Dude's stretcher into an elevator,  which dropped quickly, hitting the bottom floor with a "thud."

The elevator opened, and the orderly pushed my Dude down a long, dark hallway.  Strange animals were gathered around tables playing card games.  Vegas style neon signs flashed on the walls in unison to the distant sound of carnival music.  The orderly shoved the stretcher into a dimly lit room and hopped away.

Hours later, no one had come to check on my Dude.  I walked to the nurse's station, peered over the counter and said, "Can you help me? My Dude is in pain."

A nurse came out and smiled.  "We'd love to help you.  Please take a number,"  She said, motioning to a deli counter style ticket machine that stood in the corner.

"But he's in pain," I said,  "And no one has been in to see him yet." 

"Please take a number," repeated the nurse, as she patted my arm and then hurried down the hallway.  

An hour later, I returned to the nurse's station.  Barely able to see over the counter, I stood on my tippy toes and in a very small voice said,  "My Dude is in pain. He needs to see a doctor."

Another  nurse stepped out, and said, "Did you take a number?"

I sighed in frustration and slumped back down the hallway.  

An hour later, I went back to the nurse's station, I looked up the wall of the counter, which seemed as high as a fortress,  and squeaked, "Excuse me, whoever is back there. My Dude is in pain."

To which the nurse came out from behind the counter, and said, "Let me see your number, honey."

"I don't have a number.  Please let me speak to the doctor."

"Ok, but he's not going to like this," she said speaking slowly and with a hint of fear in her voice.

A few moments later,  a doctor appeared.  "You didn't take a number?" he asked.  

"No, but…"   

"Just answer the question!"   

"No."

"Are  you trying to cut the line?" he asked.  And then, in a louder voice, directed at anyone in earshot, "Is she trying to cut the line?  OFF WITH HER HEAD!"

I ran down the hallway,  back to my Dude's room, and bolted the door shut. I climbed into a chair that seemed very, very large, curled up in a tiny ball, and fell asleep.

Hours later, I woke up to find my Dude slumped over in pain, and still, we had no answers.   I needed to help him.  I had to help him.  But something wasn't working. 

 I had stopped being a Fierce Diva.

I had been so worried about my Dude, that the fear had compromised my ability to see clearly.  I had begun to react instead of respond, and in my panic, I had lost my voice.  My soft spoken cries for help were not going to work in a hospital setting.*  I didn't need to be loud or rude, but it was critical that I express my needs, be persistent, and stand my ground.  

I took a minute to sit still and breathe. Then,  I looked at the situation and thought through what I needed to do.  Once I had a plan, I laced up my Doc Martens, held my head high, and headed to the nurse's station.

Towering over the counter, my voice boomed, "Excuse me, I need help now."

The nurses nodded their heads in unison and said, "Yes, we're coming."  And they did.

Being fierce, like everything else, is a balance.  Depending on the situation, sometimes we need more of it and sometimes we need to hold back.  Once you know the difference, you have truly become a Fierce Diva.

Namaste, Divas!

*This post is written with no disrespect to nurses or other medics, who work hard, are overbooked with patients, yet still manage to save lives on a daily basis.  The system is what is broken.  Enough said.

©2012 Ilene Evans