Early this week, I was hospitalized after being rushed by ambulance to ER. This was not planned, heh, so I was not well dressed. At the ER, my shirt and jacket were cut off for treatment access. Much later, after it was determined I would not be intubated, I was transferred to a ward and treated for heart failure.

Three days later, I succeeded in convincing staff that I ought to go home. Staff were not well pleased but I can be pushy. Yet, I had nothing to wear on my top. So I arranged to abscond with a hospital gown over my jeans and bright yellow hospital socks in my shoes. It was a December day and semi-chilly for the SF Bay Area.

I was rolled to the entrance where I intended to call Lyft. Turns out, my cell was out of juice. I asked to charge my cell, no dice. Then I asked customer service to call a cab which they did. 30 minutes later, no cab. Checked in again to have cab called. 30 minutes later, no cab. I’m getting testy at this point. A kindly nurse’s assistant noticed I’d been waiting and came over to check on me. Her name is Maria and she is a saint.

She went in to consult with customer service. Cab was called again. Young Maria came out to sit with me. We chatted, then I began to fade a bit. Maria began trying to sort out a ride for me. At one point she said she would drive me after her shift ended. I asked if I could charge my cell inside and we went in to ask. I had asked earlier at the beginning of this fiasco but was denied.

Maria worked magic and my phone was plugged in for a charge. As I waited, Maria asked me nicely, discretely if I needed money. It was at that point I realized the dynamic in play. They thought I was a bag lady and I must have looked like one with the hospital gown over my jeans, hospital socks, hospital-bed hair and frazzled affect.

It was an educational experience. I was a bag lady for almost three hours — and I am different. They are my sisters now.