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My distrust of hospital emergency rooms and hatred for same began when I was 9 years old. My father was in severe pain and throwing up so violently he woke the whole house. My mother insisted on taking him to the hospital and he agreed without argument. This was a man who never, ever wanted to go to the doctor unless absolutely necessary, so we were all worried.

When we pulled up in front of the emergency room, my father got out and instructed my mom to stay in the car with me and my sister, who was 12 at the time. She didn't want to but he insisted it was probably nothing and he didn't want to drag us all inside. My mother gave in and we sat in the car for all of 10 minutes before she couldn't stand waiting anymore. When we entered the hospital, my mother was horrified to see my father leaning against the counter, holding his upper stomach area and clearly in pain, begging for help while the nurse behind the counter kept asking for his insurance papers. My mother stepped up, glared at the woman and told her that she had all the necessary papers and demanded, in a very loud voice, that the woman get her husband some help. The woman took one look at my mother, knew she meant business and did just that. My father was taken back into a room while my mother filled out the necessary forms and my sister and I stood around not knowing what to do. After a while, we were told we could go in to see my dad. My mother was upset because they didn't seem to be doing anything for my father. He was not hooked up to any machines monitoring his vitals or anything. My father assured us he was feeling better, but no sooner had we sat down than he told my mother to get a doctor because he felt like he was going to pass out and he did just that. My mom, my sister and I rushed out to get help. We were told to stay out of the way as they rolled what I later learned was a crash cart into my father's room. Some of my mom and dad's friends arrived at the hospital and just as they did a nurse came up to my mother and asked to speak to her somewhere where it was more comfortable. I didn't know at 9 years of age that those words meant 'come with me so I can tell you the bad news' therefore, I was shocked by my mother's reaction when she started yelling for my father and crying. I will never forget that long walk down the hallway, past the closed door where my father was, into another room where a doctor told us that my father was dead of a massive heart attack.

Now I know some people will

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