Thanks mum, you just sent me to jail

Nausea, maddeningly, is a symptom of concussion.

In Summary
  • Now everybody on the staff is going to think they missed something and keep me here longer.

I’m hoping this conversation is a dream. My mother has screwed me up in a spectacularly royal fashion.

“They said you were up all night because of the observations for a possible concussion,” she says.

Damn these people!


“What else did they say?” I ask.

“Well… They asked me about a medical condition that’s supposed to run in the family that no one has,” she continues. “They seem to think your grandmother has it but I set them straight!”

Oh. My. God. What has she done????

“Mom… Whom exactly did you speak to?” I ask her.

“Your doctor… I can’t remember his name,” she says. “He had some glasses on.”

Mr Oromandibular Dystonia himself. I’m so, so so, so screwed. I feel like throwing up. I’m dizzy. My head has started to throb. I’m going to jail. And my own freaking mother is the one who has sent me there.

“I feel sick,” I say.


I try to sit up but only get as far as leaning to the side of the bed before I throw up all over the floor. My mom tries to hold my hair back as I continue retching. Oh boy. Throwing up. That horrible feeling when your digestive system violently shifts into reverse, crashing into absolutely everything as it makes its way out. The chaos!

I imagine how it must be like in there. Like 500 people in my digestive tract minding their own business before someone screams “Tsunami!” and everyone starts running for cover but being swept away and finding themselves on this cold, hospital floor.

I’m obviously feeling queasy because my mother has just informed me that she outed me and I’m most likely going to jail as a result but nausea, maddeningly, is a symptom of concussion and now everybody on the staff is going to think they missed something and keep me here longer. As if on cue, a nurse walks in. She rushes out of the room and returns a few minutes later with a basin. By that time though, all the 500 men have been tossed out of my body and are writhing on the ground. Yuck. A cleaning crew comes to the room and mops up the mess. They deserve a spot on World’s Toughest Jobs, poor bastards.

“We’re going to need you to excuse us,” the nurse says to my mom as they roll in equipment to check me out. Whatever they see gives them pause and they call a doctor. The horn-rimmed Mr Oromandibular Dystonia walks in. His eyes don’t betray whatever he is thinking regarding the revelations my mom made earlier.

“Samantha, it seems that after an uneventful night, symptoms of a concussion have emerged,” he says.

“The throwing up?” I ask unconcerned.

“Worse than that I fear,” he says. “It seems that your blood oxygen saturation is far from normal levels, this is one of the things we look out for after a head trauma because low oxygen supply to the vulnerable brain tissue can be lethal, if not treated.”

“Oh dear, it sounds serious,” I say wondering if I really do have a freaking concussion.

“It is. But don’t worry, you’re in the right place. That’s why we insist of keeping patients for observation and…” he pauses dramatically then adds, “encourage patients to do all the tests we deem fit in regards to establishing the best way to treat them.”

“How will you treat this?” I ask ignoring his pointed reference to his Oromandibular Dystonia tests. “This is just a simple matter of giving you additional oxygen, we caught it quickly so it’s not an issue,” he says.

As if on cue, a nurse rolls in with an oxygen tank.