‘She’ll Smoke Anything’: How Police Officers, EMTs and a Hospital Staff Missed What Was Actually Wrong with Me

By Isabel Lewis ‘25

Digital collage by Maisie Bogitch ‘27

Soft, rhythmic beeping echoed down the hallway, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. A row of hospital gurneys, each occupied by patients in various states of distress, lined the sterile corridor. Most sat in silence, waiting anxiously for the man with sagging pants, Crocs and earbuds to appear—his presence was their only ticket to finally being admitted into the hospital. 

I rolled over in my gurney, which was loosely dressed in a thin sheet and incontinence pad. I caught a glimpse of my cloudy reflection in the window peering into another patient’s room as I adjusted my shirt that the EMT’s left rolled above my chest, revealing my bra and patchwork of small plastic stickers. Blood seeped through the Band-Aids on my arms and fingers. The tears that clung to my eyelids fell as my leg trembled and teeth chattered. 

My memories were, and still are, a blur. I recall walking through my friend’s humid dorm living room to fill her pastel blue mug with water. Then, nothing. “ISABEL! ISABEL! WAKE UP!” I heard someone scream while standing over me and shaking my shoulders. “Yeah, we need to call campus safety,” another voice said.

I heard campus safety officers’ shoes creak as they pressed against the vinyl flooring and their keys rattle louder as they hunched down. I opened my eyes to focus on my limp hand beside me as I told campus safety my name and what I had to eat: a stale cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese for breakfast, a cup of coffee and two slices of pizza for lunch. I hadn’t had anything to eat in close to 10 hours. I sat up and then everything went dark again. I was back on the floor—unconscious. 

As I regained consciousness for the second time, I opened my eyes and focused on my friend Kat, who was hunched down on the floor next to me. In stark contrast to Kat’s delicate grandma-style pink floral pajamas, the police stood tall and rigid in their dark uniforms. They must have come in when I was passed out. At least five men hovered over me, looking down at my static body. But I later learned that more police officers huddled in the hallway, watching TikToks and complaining about having to get out of their cars during traffic stops. 

“She often get drunk and do stuff like this for attention?” the officer closest to me asked Kat. 

“No,” Kat responded, her face red from crying. 

The six other people who witnessed this series of events, friends who had been high and laughing minutes earlier, informed the officers that I had smoked weed. I started to cough and used an inhaler. Another friend chimed in, “She also had two cigarettes.” 

“Sounds like what I used to have for breakfast in high school,” an officer said in the distance. 

“Oh, so she smokes anything she can get her hands on?” another said. 

“Did she hit the blinker?” the youngest officer asked. 

“What?” Kat responded. 

“Did she hit the blinker?” he asked again. 

“What?” Kat said once again. 

“Did she hit the blinker?” he asked for the third and final time. 

“I’m sorry. What is the question?” Kat responded with a nervous laugh. 

The person these men made me out to be was not the one I was. 

I desperately wanted them to stop staring at me and take me to the hospital. I’ve never been good at asking for help; I didn’t even know how to this time. All I knew was something was wrong. 

The barely conscious girl below them wasn’t okay: she had hit her head and sustained a concussion. 

As I finished filling the mug of water that evening and started to walk back toward my friends, I suddenly lost control of my body. I felt weightless, my vision blurred and all I could hear was faint ringing in my ears. I was told I tried to catch myself by grabbing the kitchen counter, but I fell backward, hitting my head on the oven door handle on my way down to the ground. 

“If you just talk to us, maybe you won’t have to go to the hospital,” the officer who asked if I did this for attention told me, his boot right next to my face. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I was able to get enough words out to let them know I wanted to go to the hospital.

I had hoped that the EMTs would take me away from this place, wishing they would take me seriously. 

One of the first things the EMTs did was prick my finger. Blood trickled down my hand and arm. A blurry figure held my finger up. “You’re bleeding a lot,” they said. “Did you have anything to drink?” they asked. I hadn’t, and I told them that. My friends told them that. But their tone implied they didn’t believe me. “Well, you shouldn’t be bleeding this much,” the figure added. I wanted them to see this as a sign that something was wrong, but I didn’t push it. They were the experts, after all. 

Three EMTs rode in the back of the ambulance with me. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, one lifted my shirt and said, “I don’t have eyes,” as he applied small stickers to my chest. I guess he was trying to lighten the mood, but I didn’t find it funny. I just felt powerless. 

Another EMT, who seemed new, kept asking what gauge needle to use for my IV. He tried to insert the IV four times. After the second attempt, he blew my vein, and blood seeped into the surrounding area, leaving a bruise that lasted for weeks. I asked them to try my hand instead. Another EMT commented, “The hand? Wow, you’re brave.” They didn’t try my hand. On the fourth attempt, they failed again. 

Nothing improved at the hospital. They gave me an IV and sent me home. That night, more than 20 people—first responders and medical professionals—knew I hit my head, yet most seemed more focused on labeling me as a party girl looking for attention. 

Two days after leaving the hospital, after nonstop crying and a persistent headache, my doctor told me I had a concussion. 

*** 

It’s taken me a long time to write this, but it felt important that I do because most people will encounter a situation like this. Primarily, I worried about the judgment I might receive for the cigarettes and weed. In my first draft, I spent paragraphs justifying why I smoked and explaining why I knew that wasn’t what caused my fainting or concussion. But I don’t owe anyone an explanation. Maybe I didn’t make the best decisions that night, but I know my body, and I know how it interacts with these things. Something was wrong. 

Reflecting on my past experiences, I’ve noticed a pattern in how experts address patient concerns—often looking at patients like they’re absurd. Often when we talk to healthcare professionals, there is the unspoken rule that we shouldn’t tell them what we think is happening—because self-diagnosing, especially with the internet, isn't “productive.” We’re expected to explain our symptoms, and they’ll tell us what’s going on. But more often than not, that’s not how it goes. 

I think back to when I was 11, jumping on a trampoline with over 15 people. My toe got caught in a hole, and I limped inside to tell a healthcare provider that I thought I’d broken it. She said I hadn’t—if it were broken, she claimed, I would’ve cried. After a week of pain and swelling, my mom took me for an x-ray. My toe was broken, and almost clean off. I was right. 

This kind of dismissal happens all the time. Since I was 13, I’ve had chronic pain. I’ve told doctors and specialists about the days when the pain is so bad I can’t walk; I’ve passed out from it. But over and over, I was told it was normal, and that I’d eventually grow out of it. After a while, I just stopped telling people. 

This past summer, I decided I was going to push back. I decided to see a specialist and not let them shut me down. I rehearsed my speech during the 30-minute drive to the appointment. At first, the nurse said it was probably normal—but I didn’t accept this, insisting that this level of pain wasn’t right. She scheduled me to speak with a doctor about my options. 

After waiting another month for the appointment with the doctor, I rehearsed my speech again during the drive there. When I finally saw the doctor, I told her why I was certain something was wrong—there was no way this level of pain could be normal. To my surprise, she listened. She told me my pain was real and that this wasn’t something I should have to go through. Even if there wasn’t an obvious answer to why I was experiencing this pain, that didn’t mean my experience was normal, she told me. I left the appointment and wept in my car, relieved that someone believed me. 

In my 21 years of life, that was the first time I truly felt seen by a medical professional. So many people are ignored and have their pain and experiences dismissed, but it shouldn’t be this way. 

I know who I am. You know who you are. 

You are the expert on your own body. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.