Why do you build me up. . .

Everybody does their job. Very professional.
Fill out the computerized forms, look up the records, tag the wrist, interview by admitting nurse, wife helps me with the answers.
“Take of your clothes, put these on.”
Take some blood and some biological measurements. Graphs go by on the screen. They have peaks as they move across the screen, good sign. Low heart rate, normal blood pressure, also good, I guess.
It’s the middle of the night, no windows and fluorescent lights. It’s the same twenty four hours a day.
Homeless or junkie or just poor and disheveled?
Midwestern accent, firm, gentle, businesslike, professional. “You will have to leave.”
Inaudible response
“You will have to move into the reception area then, you can stay there, but you can’t sleep here, you’ve been treated and discharged, sorry, the pain medicine will help soon, but you can’t sleep here. . . “
Names and initials attach to my name on the flat screen hanging on the wall across the room.
Wheeled into a darker room,
“Please stand against the machine and don’t move”
Back to the curtained cube.
“No heart attack, but there’s a blocked artery that will have to be opened…”
“Time for me to leave, see you in the morning, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”

More sad than scared.
More scared of pain than dying.
Doctor is confident, it’s routine.
I can deal with it.
I’ve been through it once, it hurt plenty, but I’m still here, but it hurt, but you can handle it. Bullshit, it hurt like hell. You’ve been through it once, it’s a half an hour deal, you can put up with it for half an hour. Forty-five minutes, tops.
Ride the gurney through the maze. A basement is still a basement. Stuff lined up against the walls looks like old clothes and junk., guard nodding off in chair, wakes up to chat with tired lady who pushes the gurney, another tired lady operates the elevator.
Freezing cold operating room keeps these guys awake.
“Take off your underwear.”
“Those are the words I’ve been longing to hear you say.”
Almost a smile.
“We’ll be inserting a catheter ….”
“Doc, do you know the name of that song”
“Build Me Up Buttercup.”
“Very good, do you know who sings it?”
He’s too young to remember.
“It’s from ‘Something About Mary’…uh, no.”
“The Foundations. Doc, don’t let this storehouse of useless information die.”
Masked, no smile.
Pressure on my thigh.
“Do you want pain killers?”
“As much as you can give me!”
It’ll be over soon.