"Mwa, mwa, mwa," we go.

Last week I went to the emergency room, visibly shivering, not quite with chattering teeth, but had I not been sick it would have been spastic. In the previous 9 hours I had visited the bathroom something like 587 times. 

"How are you feeling?" asked the nurse at reception.

"Freezing."

"You have a fever?"

I gave a small grunt to indicate, 'Yes.'

"Okay, let's see, " she says, as she pokes an instrument in my ear. Now I don't know why she is poking something in my ear–it's not my ear that hurts–but I don't have the energy to question her. Actually, the way that I feel, I would let her poke me with whatever she wants–she could poke my naval with a lead pipe and I would not squirm. But then she says, "102. Yes, you have a fever." So I guess it was an ear thermometer.

I shiver up and down to indicate that I heard her.

"Have you thrown up?"

I shiver from side to side to indicate, 'No.'

"Do you have diarrhea?"

I shiver from up to down.

"When did you first start having diarrhea?"

"11:00."

"And since then, about how many times have you gone to the bathroom?"

"22."

"22 times?"

I shiver from up to down.

"You counted?"

Because each visit was a memorable experience, I shiver from up to down.

"Thank you," she says.

I shiver from up to down.

"Very good," she says.

I shiver from side to side, because this is NOT good.

"Okay, let's get you to a room with its own bathroom."

I nod to indicate, 'Yes, that is a good idea because even though we are in a hospital, the idea of not making it to a bathroom in time to avoid soiling my adult self frightens me.'

I am escorted to my room, I take off my clothes and put on one of those gowns that tie in the back and I lie down. To keep me warm, I get myself under a thin faded cotton sheet instead of the 8 blankets that I am looking for. After 5 minutes the doctor walks in reading my chart.

"How are you feeling?"

I think, 'What, is he testing me? He has my chart.' But to be civil, I respond, "Freezing." 

"And I see you have diarrhea."

It was reassuring to know that my doctor could read. I shiver from up to down.

He asked a few more questions, but the point is, the dialogue, once again, showed off my eloquence. Then the doctor told me what the prognosis was–that, basically, it was a virus for which I could do very little except let run its course. He expounded on viruses, but I didn't hear much of what he was saying. I was disappointed. To be honest, once he told me that there wasn't a pill he could give me or a miracle he could perform, my mind turned inward. He gave me tips on how to stay hydrated–I remember hearing, "Gatorade" and "water" and thinking, 'Yeah right, doc, like you want me to give this unfriendly alien in my lower intestine something to drink only so it could spit the stuff out, are you kidding!' but mostly, he sounded like an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon–"Mwa, mwa, mwa."

Looking back on it, I thought about all those people we try to talk to that are in pain, the target of a lot of pharmaceutical advertising. Pain is distracting. Pain is preoccupying. Pain is totally self-centered. And, Pain wears the hell out of us. How do you talk to someone with Pain?" You make one simple point at a time. And keep to short sentences. Even punchy fragments.