Warning. This story has many twists and turns. I smell a trilogy.

On Saturday, I had a headache. A bad headache. “The slap anyone who dares breathe” type of headache. And since pain and I aren’t close relatives, I decide to take a trip to the hospital emergency room. A decision that I will regret for many years and light years to come.

In the spirit of Jed Clampett, hubby packs up all the kids into the vehicle, and we roll into the big city. Flash-Forward In Movie Time: We are in the hospital parking lot. Hubby stays in the car with the off-spring. Whilst, I limp into the emergency room. It’s funny how the mere sight of the hospital will bring out hidden illnesses. Headache and limp in tow…DAMMIT, WHERE DID I PUT MY GOOD CANE. THE BEDAZZLED ONE…I’m greeted by the hospital admission clerk. Unbeknownst to me, her job is twofold. She’s the admission clerk/interrogator: What’s your name? Date of birth? Place of employment? What brings you here? YOU DIDN’T HAVE THAT LIMP BEFORE, NOW DID YOU? Are you insured? Heavily insured? And as quickly as the interrogation began…it ends: “Please, take a seat until your name is called.” And I don’t recall answering a single question. I look down at my wrist, and there’s a hospital armband dangling from it, with all my info on it, in perfect penmanship. Oh. Yes. She’s. Magical. Or. A. Witch. In either case, I like her.

In awe of the admission clerk/interrogator, I proceed to limp, with my head cocked to the side…because that’s what you do to your head when it hurts, you cock it to the side…to the nearest available chair. And there I sit, limp leg extended, and head cocked. Until I hear The Voice, “this is my first time here, what about you?” I slowly turn to face The Voice, and answer, “no, I come here often. I’m a regular customer.” And let the awkward moment of silence begin in 3…2…1. The Voice ponders for a moment, maybe even says…”she’s corny, but hell, I’d rather talk to her, than the old chap in the corner, who scratching himself and laughing. Yep. I won…but it was a tight race.

And. The Voice and I, strike up a rather interesting conversation. Note: The Voice is a woman, about 25-30, really long legs, skin that has possibly seen better days, long red hair to die for, AND A MISSING FRONT TOOTH. Forget the admission clerk/interrogator. My love is fickle. I’m in awe of The Voice. And what were we talking about again? Oh. Yes. Methadone passing through the placenta.

After speaking with The Voice for a few minutes. I realize, that The Voice, is really The Junkie. Digest that for a few moments, will you. I’ll wait. Finished? Okay. Good.

“I wish they would hurry up,” says The Voice.

“Me too, I really need something strong,” I say.

“YOU. TOO. I knew it when I saw you,” responds THE VOICE.

“Girl, I want something that goes straight into the veins, up to my head…maybe even straighten out my limp leg a little,” I say.

“That’s some strong stuff. And to think. This morning I went to the Methadone Clinic to get clean. They wouldn’t accept me either…cause I’m pregnant, and something about Methadone passing through the placenta. What a waste of time,” replies The Voice.

“Cleaning a clinic? Who goes and…OH, YOU WENT TO THE CLINIC…TO GET CLEAN. PREGNANT! Um…I’m not…I don’t do…I’m not a junkie!,” I scream whisper.” DO I LOOK LIKE A DAMN JUNKIE?”

“You’re beautiful,” says The Voice aka The Junkie.

And that’s when I realize, that The Voice aka The Junkie, also has a bum eye. Bummer.

SIMS! SIMS! I hear over the intercom. SIMS! We need you at the nurse’s station.

So I gather up my tarnished pride, and proceed to march limp, with head cocked, to the nurse’s station. JUST BECAUSE ONE WEARS HOT PINK SWEATPANTS WITH THE WORD “JUICY” ON THE BACK, doesn’t not make one a fellow junkie! HUMP.

And because I have to re-evaluate my wardrobe. More to come in Episode 2.