The Elevator Creative Writing hypoxic ischemic encephalopathy nursing diagnosis

The day started out okay, I woke up. Except I understand some people don’t wake up. When it’s time to get off the comfortable bed and take a pee in the bathroom and then head to the kitchen and make a cup of strong black coffee followed by a delicious warmed-up chocolate covered doughnut, and get ready for work, like I’m suppose to do, as I woke can anxiety panic attacks cause high blood pressure up. That’s my role in the universe. During the night, however, it’s not uncommon to die. It’s called dying in your sleep. It basically means the universe no longer has a role for you. You are no more.

It’s speculation on my part not a lot of suffering goes on when you die in your sleep; as I understand it, death is quick; for instance, the heart goes into epileptic fits and stops pumping blood, or a vein in the brain bubbles up grotesquely for no apparent reason and anxiété définition médicale bursts, boom, where all commands to exist shuts down, as if a car running out of gasoline, or the one I love: head on a pillow, a gaping mouth, snoring, wife irked because the snoring is keeping her from getting some diffuse anoxic brain injury solid sack time, when there’s a god-awful pandemonium of struggling to live, a sudden chocking desperation of mucous gaining victory like a pillow forced upon a face and then, softly, a heavenly silence, and she relaxes because it’s nice and quiet, which causes her to sink into the bed, whereupon she drifts into sleepland with a dead body beside her.

Like I said, the day started out okay, I got up and I took a pee and glanced at my phone resting on the kitchen table. It was lit up. Which means lots of messages and voice mails. I frowned. Who might be trying to reach hypoxic brain damage recovery me during the night? With a deep furrow on my forehead, I read the first text: jack!!!! Get down here!!!! Now!!!! The feds are all over the place!!!!

Jesus. I felt sick. There were more texts, lots more, a few were ominously anonymous. That concerned me. The delicious warmed-up chocolate covered doughnut I was holding, slipped out of my fingers and hit the kitchen floor tile, plop, and the dog, as a striking cobra, devoured it. Normally, first thing anoxic encephalopathy in the morning, the kitchen is filled with the aroma of hot, freshly brewed, coffee. But the coffee machine sat under the cupboards hypoxic ischemic encephalopathy stages, out of the way, tucked away, cold and idle, I speculated I had forgotten to set it up on a timer before I retired for the evening. I thought about making a cup now, but changed my mind and concentrated instead on my phone. When I was opening one of the anonymous text, there was an abrupt vomit noise, I looked down to see the dog retching on my bare foot. I didn’t need anoxic brain injury this. Within a minute, or so it seemed, I was dressed, yelling to my wife as I flew out the door, to take the dog out, that he was sick. From our bedroom, I heard a flaccid: what?

The elevator to the parking garage appeared to be stuck on the tenth floor, which was one floor below me. Above the door, the elevator location indicator blinked . . . Tenth floor–tenth floor . . . I punched the elevator up and down button like a prizefighter . . . Tenth floor . . . My phone rang. It was my boss anoxic event. I looked at my watch: five thirty five. Stillborn morning. Cold. Dark. Everybody still in bed. God! I thought, send it to voice mail. No. Answer it. Desperately my head jerked up to the elevator location indicator, it was still on the tenth floor. Damn it. One miserable floor below me. How many steps was that, like maybe a hundred. In twenty seconds, I could rush down the exit stairwell and be on the tenth floor. In twenty seconds.

Taking the stairs two at a time, where in no time I was on the tenth floor. I pulled on the stairwell door. It wouldn’t budge, it was either stuck or locked. I kicked the metal door, hard, expecting something, anything to happen. Nothing. I bolted down to the ninth anxiety attack treatment at home floor and the stairwell door opened without hindrance, thank god. And I ran to the elevator and pressed the elevator’s up and down button. The elevator hummed to life, as though a dinosaur coming anoxic brain injury post cardiac arrest to life, and I could hear the elevator car coming down to the eighth floor. I took a quick peek at my phone. My boss had called three times, all with voice mails. Things were starting to work in my favor. It was just a feeling. Soon I’d be at work and everything would get sorted out. I’m sure there was an innocuous misunderstanding. There was nothing too worry about. The only thing to fear . . . I started to laugh.

The elevator car came to a halt, and a computerized tone of voice of a female said: eighth floor. It was a pleasant voice. But something was wrong, because the elevator car door jerked back and forth like anoxic brain injury stories something was holding it in place, mysteriously holding it back, producing but a desperate fissure and refusing to fully open. The space was enough to fit a hand. No more. I tried to pry the door to where I might squeeze into the car. I kicked it, I punched it, and with my shoulder, I butted it like a billy goat. Noting worked, so I stood back a few steps to see perhaps if I was missing reflex anoxic seizures causes something. That’s when I saw moment inside the elevator car. A shadow. Someone was inside the elevator car!