Even less so when it was in the jam-packed streets of New York City. What should have taken fewer than five resulted in a forty-three minute detour filled with questions like, “Ma’am, do you still have your appendix?” like maybe I had misplaced it somewhere along the way, accidentally left it on the subway, or perhaps even donated it to science, and the paramedics poked at my skin enough to leave me feeling like an abused pincushion. By the time I arrived at Mercy Health and was ushered into my own curtained off portion of the overpopulated emergency room, I was about a quart low of bodily fluid and looked like I was ready to fill in as an extra on the latest vampire movie set. I generally liked vampires, so the thought actually got me a little deliriously excited. My skin held a ghostly pallor and my eyes were webbed with red vessels that crossed over all the typically white portions. I looked like death warmed over, and to say I felt even that good was being incredibly generous.
