The Frequent Flyer

"The Writer's Cramp" Winner for August 10, 2010
Word Count: 1000
The Prompt: Write about a first experience of something that becomes addicting.

* * *

There isn’t a soul working the E.R. who doesn’t know me by name. They’ve even got a bed they try to keep unoccupied in case I drop by: left from the nurse’s station, third from the emergency exit. Bed number eighteen, residence of Timothy Brewer.

Nurses call me “frequent flyer” when they think I’m not listening. “F.F.” for short. They bitch and moan about how tax dollars and hospital funding pours into a black hole I make every time I show up. I know all of them by first name, and I make sure to greet them all as I’m wheeled to my digs. The charge nurse, a gruff, burly dude named Carl, always welcomes me back with a warm “Jesus Christ, what the hell is it this time, Tim?“

Doctors roll their eyes, but they do the tests anyway. That’s the beauty of an E.R.: they can’t turn an uninsured patient away, even when they know, they just know, that goddamn kid is faking again. Put on a convincing enough act and you’ve earned yourself at least an overnight, sometimes more if the tests require it.

They tell me I need to stop, they tell me it’s a waste of time, they tell me I’m in good physical shape, but I do it anyway. Healthcare these days, you know? So focused on treating the disease these days that they’ve all but forgotten about the patient.

I was sixteen when I started. I’d been left to my own devices for the night, my father overbooked in the O.R. and my mom running an understaffed ICU. The injury that got me in was pretty vanilla, actually. Carved up my palm on the blade of a kitchen knife while whipping up whatever the hell I’d decided to make for dinner. I probably should have called a neighbor or an EMS in retrospect, but I made it to the hospital solo just fine. I can still remember how the blood dribbled down the steering wheel, glistening under a luminous urban night sky.

“You gonna be alright, baby,” my intake nurse told me as I sat in the wheelchair, clothes saturated with smeared blood and eyes welled up from the pain. Her name was Grace, and her voice was like the touch of a favorite blanket: a bit weathered and worn, but nonetheless the most comfortable and soothing thing anyone could ever hope to find themselves swaddled in. “We gonna take real good care ‘a you here.”

She meant every word. I’d been forewarned the E.R. was jammed and that it might take some time to get me back home, but the attention I got while I was there made every second worth waiting. The doctor, a young and fresh female resident, flashed me goofy grins and cracked jokes as she quilted my wound shut. The social worker, an older, stocky gentleman with a go-getter attitude, practically begged me for something he could do to make me more comfortable. Grace flashed a smile and a “How you holdin’ up, baby?” every time she passed on her way to another bed. Hell, even my parents, busy as they were, sprang out of the woodwork to find me when they’d gotten word I was In the E.R. I’d almost forgotten I’d even had an injury at that point. I’m normally not the type who seeks attention, but for that one evening, those few short hours, I was a goddamn A-list celebrity.

The next day everything went back to normal. My parents weren’t home to greet me, just a note to remind me to change my bandage. The first couple of weeks I was fine, but after a while I couldn’t stop thinking about the E.R. That goofy smiling doctor, that eager-to-please social worker, Grace…I don’t quite know how I started, but the next thing I knew, I’d dialed 9-1-1 and flipped open a general medical book to a disease I thought would be obscure enough to get my foot in the door.

“I need an ambulance,” I said, dumping as much anguish into my voice as I could. “I have lupus. I’m having an episode.”

I probably should have done a bit more thorough research into what lupus was before I called...especially considering I had doctors for parents. The EMS responded to the call, but when they found out I was a male…well, they had their suspicions. I decided after that first failed attempt point I’d be taking myself to the hospital from then on…and that I’d do my homework.

My acting skills and knowledge of pathophysiology got better as I went along. Anaphylactic shock was one of my favorites back in the day. It was infrequent enough that even my parents thought it was legitimate – a previously unknown hypersensitivity to peanuts – but after a while those few visits a year didn't cut it.

I took up a double major when I was in college: Pre-Medical and Theater Arts. My parents were tickled fucking pink to think that they’d spawned another healthcare professional to add to the family lineage, but they didn’t know the real reason…at least at first. They tried sending me to a shrink when they found out my hospital visits had been a ruse. I spent most sessions trying to convince the guy I had multiple personality disorder. He kept trying to ask me about my parents, what it like to be home alone all that time. I didn’t play ball, though part of me wishes I had sometimes.

Nowadays I make my visit a few times a month. Not an easy pastime to have, being twenty-three and uninsured. Sure, I still get attention, but it’s never the same as it used to be.

“Okay, Tim,” my doctor will sigh, flicking the privacy curtain closed behind him. “What seems to be the problem?”

They ask more out of routine than concern, nowadays. I like to pretend otherwise, like they really have no idea, but deep down I know they already know the answer.