AND THE NOMINEES ARE...

March 21, 2007

If there were Oscars for field performances, I’ve seen some shoo-ins.

One was an older woman draped in a t-shirt and sorrow, writhing dramatically on a flower-print comforter. Her one-bedroom apartment reeked of desperation and incense. She’d called us for stomach pain—again. Purple-clad nephew ushered us in like stage crew. She wailed, clutched her stomach, refused to move—until, of course, the moment demanded it. Then, like Lazarus risen, she walked to the stretcher with divine conviction and the power of melodrama.

Another contender? The polished suburban housewife-turned-opioid escape artist. I watched her carefully choreographed routine unfold: 911 call with sobs, fake retching into a clean toilet, fetal position on hardwood floors, and violent coughing fits timed to our arrival. She writhed. She moaned. She dodged questions and flopped around like a trout on a dock.

But what gave her away was the encore—heart rate of 60, dry heaves on arrival, flailing against seat belts, and one last “pass out” scene that didn’t fool anyone.

I've seen pain. Real pain. This wasn’t that. This was theater—and not the good kind.