Lost Soul in Paris
On Elvis's Teeth and Being Prepared
Before getting too engrossed in this tale, a word of warning: don't try looking for the kind of tidy conclusion that well written stories have, for this one is still not finished, and won't be until I get that fatal dose of whatever will send me to Pere Lachaise. Just a friendly reminder that no matter how well prepared you think you might be, you're not.
The first phrase I learned before moving to France was, Non merci. Je suis allergique. Si je le mange, je ne respire plus. (No, thank you. I'm allergic. If I eat that, I shall breathe no more.) Not a fun phrase for a person who won't take phone calls when Julia Childs in on TV; but unfortunately vital because I'm allergic to close to 300 different foods including the three basic French food groups of wine, cheese and bread. I thought I was well prepared and flew confidently over to France, armed with my handy phrase, a box of Special K and 10 boxes of antihistamines, having no idea that my life was in danger.
I don't know what prompted my allergy attack. It could be that every other address where I live is a bakery and the other addresses are cheese and wine shops leaking their smells out into the streets along with their allergens; or perhaps my body disagrees with the heady smells of human waste in the Metros. Whatever the cause, I turned the color of an August tomato and just as swollen.
After about a half an hour of wandering the cobblestone streets of the left bank, my husband Noah and I found a hospital. The nurse in the emergency room was very patient with our poor French and told us to have a seat and that I would be seen shortly. I was so excited, I could hardly breathe. And sure enough, just a few minutes later an attendant called my name. I waved goodbye to Noah and followed the man into rooms which swirled with frustration, misunderstandings, and Elvis's smile.
First, he led me to a room with a nurse sitting behind a computer. The man sat opposite of me and together he and the nurse asked me all sorts of questions I couldn't understand. I started to panic, not good for a person who could barely breathe to begin with. Then they said the word allergique. I know that word! I began listing, in French, a partial list of the things I am allergic to. Unfortunately, my French failed even that basic test. After a few horrible moments where they thought I said I was allergic to black people (the French word noix--nuts--sounds very similar to noir--black), I was put on a gurney and wheeled into another room.
Knowing that I could probably attract more medical attention with honey than with vinegar, when three nurses began speaking to me in incomprehensible French, I smiled and nodded. After a few moments, they became extremely agitated and attacked me, pulling off my clothes. This was all being done while other nurses and doctors came in and out of the room discussing their lunch plans. I tried to remain as nonchalant as I could wearing only a heart monitor, my underwear and a smock that covered all of my back, but not enough in front.
After two and a half hours of people looking at me and shaking their heads while they talked about the lunch they had eaten, I was wheeled into yet another room, where Noah and another doctor were waiting for me. The doctor looked at my chart and shook his head. "You're allergic? No bread? No cheese? No wine? If I were you I would shoot myself." Super. In all the hospitals in all the world, I get Dr. Patch Adams. I told him the drugs that American hospitals had given med-Benedryl? He shakes his head and Noah gives him the generic name. "We don't have that," he said. Tagamet? Nope. Epinephrine? Dr. Patch's eyes light up, "Yes! We have that! We have adrenalin!"
You know in the movie Pulp Fiction where they stab the woman in the heart with adrenalin? That was .01 milligrams. Dr. Patch instructed the nurse to give me an entire milligram, granted in the arm and not the heart, but still a lot more than what I am comfortable with.
When the adrenalin hit, my heart started doing a really good imitation of hummingbird wings and I felt my body vibrating. When I opened my eyes, Noah looked a little concerned. "Your heart rate went up to 190." The doctor looked at me and winked, "I'm good. Yes? You are breathing and the red is gone." I tried to explain that this was only temporary, that I needed other medicines as well, but he had already left the room for a cigarette. He came back about 40 minutes later shaking his head because I was red again, "Another milligram." This time I had visions of jogging up Everest without oxygen. I came to and Noah looked kind of worried. "Your entire body is the color of your teeth." The doctor looked pleased and left for another cigarette. He returned later shrugging his shoulders, "Another milligram."
There was no light at the end of the tunnel. A supernova shone right in front of me. The only thing separating me from the glow of Elvis's teeth was a Venetian blind opening and shutting as fast as shopoholic's wallet. When I came to, Noah said very softly, "Your heart stopped beating."