“So, your last name is Kolb?”
“Are you related to Josh?”
“Um, yeah. He’s my son.”
“I know Josh. I played football with him in high school.”
“Cool” may have slid out of my mouth at that moment, but it wasn’t what I was thinking.
Instead, panic was immediately throwing a spontaneous and boisterous party with embarrassment and my mind was screaming, “Oh, shit.” “No way.” “This can’t be happening.” “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
You see, I had made an unscheduled stop in the ER that night because I was having chest pain. And as I lay on a gurney inside a curtained room, this young, blonde, muscular male nurse was running an EKG on my not-so-young body while my husband was watching.
And just so you know, modesty is not practiced in the ER. Not when you are complaining of chest pain. No, your gown is unsnapped, the pads are adhered to your chest, the leads are attached, and the EKG run before you can change your mind and escape.
So I found myself chained on this narrow bed by the EKG leads with the upper half of my gown pooled around my waist while the twins danced in all of their delight in front of this young, blonde, muscular male nurse who had just confessed he knew my son, and my husband was watching.
Not a Kodak moment. Not even close to one.
So the next time a young, blonde, muscular male nurse asks me, “So, your last name is Kolb?”, I think I’ll answer, “No, it’s Smith.”