'Same place to me!'

The paramedic laughed when I corrected her that I was from Brighton, not London. This distinction seems redundant to me now, considering my tongue filled my mouth and I couldn’t feel my legs at the time.  

'Ever had anything similar happen before? No allergies?'

Never. I’d had a few asthma attacks when I was fourteen and playing football four times a week, but this was mainly used as an excuse for my lack of fitness. 

I looked at the paramedic’s fingers as she hooked me up to a machine. She was quite an old woman, her skin almost translucent in the red and yellow flashes of emergency. Her bedside manner soothed me. Having only been in Australia for ten days, surrounded exclusively by other students, I latched onto as much maternal energy as I could get. Or, more likely - project onto her. Sharp and kind, she asked me questions about myself and I tried to answer. Communication was successful overall. Only a few words conquered me despite the obvious language barrier, which I was holding between two fingers so as not to choke.  

With every bump in the road, the machine monitoring my vitals would sound alarmingly. This shock was incredibly obstructive to my breath control and probably my vitals themselves — the irony of which was not lost on me, even in my growing state of confusion. When I forgot what day it was and panicked, the paramedic squeezed my hand, which I couldn’t feel but appreciated anyway. 

Just keep breathing, slowly. You’re alright. In. Out. In. Out.' 

She breathed with me as though she really carried a spare set of my lungs within her.

We arrived at the hospital after what felt like a very long drive, because time was no longer measured in minutes, but in the closing of space between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Still strapped to the stretcher, I was parked behind a line of about eight others. We lined the wall like train carriages and awaited further instructions. Aware for the first time of every nerve ending in my face, I lay there wondering if this was what acupuncture felt like. 

Here, I was passed to another paramedic, who looked to be in his thirties and had a thick moustache. He was speaking to a coworker about his lunch break when I was wheeled beneath him. He made a joke about a Tupperware or something, before turning to me and introducing himself as Matt.  

I asked him if I was having a stroke. 

He assured me that I wasn’t, the words obviously not expressed so beautifully without ever actually leaving his lips. I’d been briefed on the direct Australian manner that often catches us Brits out, so I knew not to expect a curtsy at the end of every sentence. Still, even in its anaphylactic state, my body diverted a good bit of energy to politeness and self consciousness—which tells you all you need to know about British custom. I held my pulsing tongue with demure as we ran through more questions. Matt was distressed to find out that someone born in 2002 could be 21 and not in grade 7. I asked him when he was born.

'1997.' 

The dark ages.

Apparently I answered too enthusiastically when he asked me if I had taken a pee sample before. Eyebrows raised, he laughed as he handed me the cup—the implications of which I deny. I’m also not entirely sure what these implications were. 

The mechanics of taking a pee sample are complex, even for an ostensible veteran. The  bathroom was small and dimly lit. It didn’t lock properly, so Matt waited outside the door. The  shadow of his shoes traced the doorframe, as if he were giving a Ted Talk on the other side. A  mirror had been placed in the direct eyeline of the toilet. Hunched over, legs decorating the walls for optimum angle, I caught sight of my contorted form and of my tongue. My tongue. There it sat, so proud to no longer be hidden between my fingers. It looked like a speckled plum. I admired the lack of mercy from whoever had put the mirror there. A tiny floral mural decorated the bottom corner of the wall and I tried not to pee on it.  

Handing Matt the sample, I was slightly disappointed with his professionalism as he took it and passed it on. No admiration of accuracy, perfectly up to the line, a healthy colour. Even if my nervous system didn’t work, my pelvic floor certainly did.  

They retook my blood sugar, heart rate and blood pressure once I was back on the stretcher. The tingling was subsiding. I could put my tongue back in my mouth. I could walk. They pointed me towards the waiting room and told me that a doctor would be in to see me shortly. 

'Code Blue. Preparing for resuscitation,' came over the Tannoy.  

A rush of paramedics and an unconscious elderly man passed me in the corridor.  

I looked for Lucy in the waiting room. She’d come with me in the ambulance, despite us having known each other for roughly three days. We had left the rest of the group on the side of the road in Geelong, with a good bit of adrenaline to return the hire car to its owner by the deadline of 9:30pm. Masks were mandatory in the hospital, which meant I had only eyes to go by. Eyes and eyes and hands and fingers, holding and cracking and typing.

The clinical hospital smell was strong, but not enough to sanitise the emotions held between the four walls of the waiting room. Some people were with partners or parents; some were alone. All were suspended in time. All were painted white with that waiting colour. I found Lucy and sat beside her. When she went to 7/11 to buy 'literally anything sugary', I phoned Beth. Beth, my dearest friend and home comfort who was miraculously on the other side of the world with me. She was also the only person insured to drive the car back to Melbourne. So, she was not with me. I updated her between crackles of broken signal. Then I sat silently for a bit and cried. 

The doctor called my name. I went with her and recounted the sequence of events, well rehearsed at that point. 

'Medical curiosity.'

This was the final answer I got from the doctor before being discharged, as my symptoms apparently 'did not align to indicate any one problem'. 

I returned to the waiting room and told Lucy the verdict. She asked me if Bupa covered 'medical curiosities', which was hilarious in an acutely painful, student loan type of way. It felt very blasphemous to laugh in the waiting room. 

As we left, a mother began shouting at her son, cupping his face and shaking his slumped body. 

'Jason! Jason!'

Matt, along with two other paramedics came quickly through the doors with a stretcher. I smiled at Matt as he passed, but he didn’t see me. You’d think that holding the urine of another person would mean something. 

The mother’s voice followed us through the corridors, but dissolved as the doors closed behind us and we walked out into the car park. Darkness was a welcome respite from the lights. Sat on the edge of the road, I watched the breath leave my mouth in clouds against the cold air. I thought about how far I was from home when death had been so nearby. I pictured my parents finishing their lunch and starting on the washing up. Some of my friends would still be in bed. I was a tiny speck of person. And lucky.

I looked back at the hospital. Part of me wanted to stay and find out what had happened to Jason.  

But our Uber had arrived, so we left.