We were met at the door by a scrub-wearing fellow, who ushered us in.
The very first question asked was “How much have you had to drink today?”
That was an easy answer. “Half a bottled coffee and about two sips of Bloody Mary.”
“And how much did you have to drink yesterday?” was the second question.
“A bottle of coffee, a bottle of water, and two cans of Mt Dew.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” As an after-thought, I amended: “I might have had two bottles of water, actually…”
“Use any drugs? Smoke anything?’
“Are you sure?” He pressed, with more than a bit of incredulity in the tone.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” There may have been a bit of annoyance in my reply.
In retrospect, I’m sure it seemed highly unbelievable that anyone would drink no alcohol or engage in any type of illegal activity for a whole day at MIS. My annoyance increased when he turned to Jeff and asked, “Does that sound right to you?”
“Yeah,” Jeff affirmed. “She doesn’t like beer … or water…”
A wave of pain and nausea hit, accompanied by little black spots that seemed to be getting larger. Suddenly I was on my back on a gurney, being asked to describe what happened from the beginning.
It started in the middle of my back and then moved left. I traced the path of pain on my back, adding that the pain was even a little lower. By this time, it had turned into a constant zinging.
“It’s likely you’re dehydrated,” he commented. Then asked, “Ever had a kidney stone?”
“No.” I replied.
“Well,” he lead-in, “seems like you’ve got one now.”
I very much doubted that.
“There’s not much we can do for you here,” he told us. “We’ll give you some fluids and some pain meds to hold you over.”
“Oh.” I thought about the situation, and reluctantly realized what that really meant. “I’m so sorry, we have to leave, Jeff.”
His shoulders went down a little, as his voice went up a notch. “Before the race?”
“Yeah.” I frowned at that, feeling badly. “… and I don’t think I can help you load the van.”
As I was finishing thinking aloud, the medic turned, and announced, “You can’t leave.”
“Yeah, that’s right!” Jeff’s enthusiasm returned.
“What?!” I was astounded. “Why can’t I leave?”
“You can’t get a vehicle out of the infield while a race is going on.” “Jeff explained snapping his fingers smartly. “Can’t drive the van off in between race cars …,” he laughed. “The only way to get out, is to walk out, and you’re not walkin’ very good. Then, we’d have no way of getting home unless we called someone.”
“Well, how do injured drivers get out?” I countered. Two dumb-founded men stared back at me. It was Jeff that took up the draft on this one, by somberly stating, “The race usually stops for that.”
Jeff reasoned it all out. “By the time we get out to the road, the race will likely be over. It’ll take hours for someone to drive in to get us. It’ll be faster to drive out… after the race.”
My response was a grumbled grunt.
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