Hi. Uh, I am an emergency. Am I in the right place?

Years ago I walked alone into an emergency room in Arkansas and quietly told the admitting personage that I was, uh, an emergency.
I had walked in under my own steam and had driven myself to the hospital in my pickup. I didn’t look much like an emergency. I wasn’t in pain. I looked like an emergency’s boyfriend, or an emergency’s older brother.
The people in emergency clothes kept looking behind me apparently to see whatever critical medical problem I had brought with me … the girlfriend, or the little brother.
I was there because there had been blood in my urine. I figured a kidney had snapped in two, or that one of Thomas Alva Edison’s “little people” that keep the body functioning had left a hatch open somewhere. (Yeah, one of his inventions was for a means to communicate with them. But, since he invented the television and feet, history decided to forget about the little people, who are nonetheless sometimes thanked at awards banquets.)

In any case, I was plenty scared and did not know what was going on with myself. Inside the ER I was desperate for friendly smiles and warm demeanors.
The first thing they wanted was a urine sample. I calmly explained that I had just peed the scariest pee ever at home and that another pee could be a while in the making. I was asked to “try anyway,” so I went into a conveniently located bathroom, closed the door and did not “try anyway.”
I had been peeing since before I could remember, and not once did I ever save some for later. I knew this cause would be lost for at least an hour, and then succeed only if I drank water for 48 of the 60 minutes.
I opened the door and shame-facedly looked over the tops of my glasses at the orderly who was on pee-delivery duty that night, and shook my head in defeat.
Then I was guided into a large room with dark green tile and escorted onto a gurney. Blood was taken from my arm. I explained to the nurse that I might need that back, since I had just seen what looked like endless quarts of blood flowing where blood just shouldn’t ever.
After some gurney solitude in disquiet, I was accosted by the doctor on duty. When was the last time I had seen a doctor? Well, 1979. I am 25 years old; don’t I think I should be more responsible? Well, everyone else seems to think so. And, by the way, my blood sugar is over 800. As a diabetic, I should pay more attention.
Sometimes I being me has peeved people. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out why this man seemed to resent me so.
“Does anyone know why I am bleeding?” I asked, unable to leave the topic to discuss diabetes or anything else.
“No.”
I suddenly felt like I was in the wrong room.
Enthusiastic Narratort: Does Tim live? Will the ER doctor punch him in the face? Find out next time … Same tortoise time. Same tortoise channel.