S t r e e t R o o ts • J a n u a ry 2 3 -2 9 , 2Ò 15
Street Poetry
P a g e 13
Dizzy Dan’s Hologram: Part I - ER
D an Newth is a Street
Roots vendor an d
periodic writer. This
is the first o f three
columns, told
through his
perception o f events
surrounding his
recent attempted
suicide a n d recovery.
BY DAN NEWTH
I was too sedated to move or talk, but I
did manage to change my breathing to make
a different noise. They picked up on this
iarrhea dribbled down my leg. I fell
and became more persistent. One thing I
onto the toilet with my underwear
didn’t expect was the amplified pain from
still on. The 50-60 sleeping pills I
the needle digging around under my skin
had taken were making me lose control of
looking for a vein.
my muscles and bowels. I stunk.
I started involuntarily grunting when one
I felt peace.
of the needles seemed to jab a nerve. Pain
I heard my wife yelling. It struck me as
and sleep are not compatible. My increasing
odd that it wasn’t at me. Why was the toilet
awareness was centered in pain. It’s an ugly
moving? Some part of my shrinking
way to come to. My startled response
awareness realized she was calling 911 and
started to kick in and my arm jerked a little.
was angry, then nothing.
Stabbing the needle into a new spot.
It was dark and cold; people carried me
I tried to say, “That hurt.” The
outside and put me on a gurney, then
emergency staff recognized my attempt to
nothing.
speak and started asking me what I took. I
Something was hitting my chest.
said I took sleeping pills. They asked what
Someone was yelling my name. It pulled me
kind of sleeping pills, but I didn’t know. It
out of oblivion.
was an old prescription my wife had quit
Oblivion is not an experience. It is
taking oyer a year ago that was still hanging
nothing. And that was my goal, but not for
around the house.
the first time. I have a string of failed
They had tubes and wire taped and stuck
attempts to end the hologram, but I had
into me. They asked me if my wife could
always kept things quiet before. This was a
come into the room. And I felt my first
public event. It was not my intent to make
emotion of the event: resentment toward
such a big stink.
her for calling 9-1-1.1 said she could come
My chest being thumped increased my
back anyway. Three staff left the room and
awareness to a numb, detached state.
one made a comment about the smell after
Demands to wake up, move my hands or
leaving the room. And then, I felt my second
legs or open my eyes filtered in. My
emotion: embarrassment. I had never
nervous system was way too suppressed to
intended the paramedics or emergency
respond yet. “Dan, wake up” and other such
room staff should have to smell my shit. I
meaningless Comments were being said. I
had expected the coroner, whom I would
heard complaints about the sickening smell
never meet, to dealwith those problem s.
surrounding me, how drug addicts w ere **
CONTRIBUTING WRITER
■
using emergency room resources; how low
my oxygen level was; how my blood
pressure wasn’t registering and the
difficulty of getting the I.V. started because
of the blood pressure.
Shit happens.
My wife came back crying, which was a
big change from earlier in the evening. She
had wanted me to leave, but I was afraid of
experiencing homelessness again. I no
longer had the mental toughness to sleep
outside and the homeless shelters are a
nightmare. I knew I would become one of
the hopelessly lost people who do things
like yelling at random people on Hie .
sidewalk or at a signpost.
She said she wouldn’t let me die. To me,
suffering through a complete mental
breakdown from living on the street with
compromised mental and emotional
resiliency seemed a fate worse than death.
My wife cried and held my hand while I
coldly looked back. The staff asked some
questions and I referred them to my wife
because I couldn’t speak well and didn’t
remember details. She was the only one
who knew what kind of medication I took.
They asked me to drink about a pint of
charcoal suspended in some kind of liquid. I
tasted the awful liquid. I was told the
alternative was to stick a tube down my
throat. Pain is a powerful motivator in the
moment. I drank the charcoal.
Within 30 minutes some of that charcoal
wanted to come back out. I still didn’t have
control of my body. Three staff moved me
onto a chair with a bucket in the seat
Something jet-black, oily and a smell out of
hell came o u t Even I felt nauseated at this
point
I apologized and it was lame. This was an
assault. If I had done this in public, I would
have caught a felony. I am honestly deeply
sorry the staff had to endure this. I don’t
think my em ergency room visit w as a wise
use of resources and I think many people
will agree with me.
The ER staff told me I was going to
Cardiology, which was a real experience and
a topic for the next column.
T lieT aft H o m e
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