I waited. One hour. Two hours. The time, unmoored from any urgency, drifted by. My hopes rose when a nurse came by and asked if my name was McMartin, and I said yes, believing I was about to be treated, then she said, good, she was just checking to make sure I hadn’t gone home — which made me laugh. Then she left.

Some time later, a doctor appeared. He examined me. More cognitive tests. Looked at my scalp. Ordered a CT scan. I was taken to the radiology department and had the scan. I was told I would get the results in two or three hours, depending. Depending on what? Depending how busy the doctor examining the scan was. Then it was back to the hallway, to sit through that fraught interlude before diagnosis when one wonders how the coin toss will go.

More waiting. The doctor reappeared. He said the scan showed no signs of fracture or internal bleeding, but had shown — surprise! — a very small lacunar infarction in my brain, evidence of a silent stroke that had happened sometime in the last few years.

News to me, I said.

Well, he said, they were common in persons my age, but if I preferred to live to a ripe old age I should cut out salt, and exercise as if my life depended on it, because it very well might. Then I had my scalp cleaned, and was given a tetanus shot. Then I left. The ER’s admission lounge was still crowded.

Original source: ca