Crisis situation? Count me out...
Zelda fell and cut her hand today.
Lovett called me at work to come take her to the emergency room. I pulled up to the house and she was standing in the garage, her left hand wrapped in a beach towel. Not the most pleasant welcome home I've ever received.
The kids were nowhere to be found. Lovett walked Dora to [neighborhood playmate's] house, Zelda explained. Can we go now, please?
A few minutes later I dropped her off near the entrance to the ER and I miraculously found a curbside parking place just around the corner. I confidently strode through the sliding glass doors (well, as confidently as a man can stride while hiding his wife's purse under his coat) with that ER adrenaline flowing through my veins. I gotta tell ya...
...it ain't like it is on TV: doors flying open, gurneys skidding around corners on two wheels with 18-member medical teams hanging on for dear life and pouty, blonde interns yelling Stat! like Parris Island drill instructors. The real ER is peopled with bored clerks typing insurance information, green-around-the-gills flu sufferers holding their bellies, and old folks hobbling back and forth to the restroom. And people sleeping while sitting up. 'Cause in the real ER, you do an awful lot of...
...waiting.
If Zelda had not fashioned a homemade tourniquet to stanch the flow of blood, we might have seen a lot more action, but as it was, even after the triage nurse examined her, we waited for two hours before being called into a room.
And then the fun really started.
Dr. Red Duke danced into Examination Room 10 to have a look-see. I, your humble reporter, tried everything within my power to refrain from having a look-see. I held The Periodic Table at eye-level, effectively blocking Dr. Duke, Zelda, and more importantly, the parts of Zelda that began bleeding when Dr. D ripped the gauze away. Can you bend this finger? Dr. Duke asked. OOOOWWWW!?! Zelda cried. Uh-oh... I moaned, as the room began to spin. I dashed from the room to keep from fainting but the head rush I got from standing up so quickly only made matters worse. I'm gonna faint in front of all these nurses if I keep standing here I reasoned, wondering if my insurance would charge me two co-payments if I did. So I wobbled back into Room 10 and sat down again. Dr. Duke left to retrieve his bone saw from under the seat of his buckboard as I tried with every ounce of strength I had to regain my composure.
I didn't fool a soul.
A nurse, who had seen me standing up against the outside wall, followed me into the room. Are you about to faint? she asked.
Yes, ma'am, I am.
Come on, we got to get you outta here.
I'm afraid to stand up.
You got to go she said as she dragged my pale, clammy butt out of the chair, shoved a cup of ice into my hand, and pushed me outside into the fresh air. When you feel better, you go back to the waiting room she ordered, muttering something about men's and women's thresholds for pain.
So I meekly took a seat in the waiting room along with the other moaning sickfolk. I was being no help to anyone. And I hated it.
I had received a disturbing e-mail earlier in the day that a good friend had been rushed to emergency surgery for a problem we thought had been fixed months ago. Zelda was behind the swinging doors getting bits of glass dug out of her fingers. Some guy across the room was doubled over in pain between trips to the restroom to, well, you know... And I wasn't doing a bit of good for any of them.
I tried to pray but I felt so impotent. What does it mean to pray for one another? To pray for God's presence, which he already promised us? To pray for healing, which may or may not be in His will? To pray for His will, which may mean that they suffer (say it Chris, say it: or that they die)? That He "bless" them and the doctors and nurses? What does that mean?
There, in that waiting room, I felt very, very small.
Emergency! Crisis! Adam, go boil some water! Bill, grab some bandages! Chris, bend over and put your head between your knees! We don't need two invalids.
Lovett called me at work to come take her to the emergency room. I pulled up to the house and she was standing in the garage, her left hand wrapped in a beach towel. Not the most pleasant welcome home I've ever received.
The kids were nowhere to be found. Lovett walked Dora to [neighborhood playmate's] house, Zelda explained. Can we go now, please?
A few minutes later I dropped her off near the entrance to the ER and I miraculously found a curbside parking place just around the corner. I confidently strode through the sliding glass doors (well, as confidently as a man can stride while hiding his wife's purse under his coat) with that ER adrenaline flowing through my veins. I gotta tell ya...
...it ain't like it is on TV: doors flying open, gurneys skidding around corners on two wheels with 18-member medical teams hanging on for dear life and pouty, blonde interns yelling Stat! like Parris Island drill instructors. The real ER is peopled with bored clerks typing insurance information, green-around-the-gills flu sufferers holding their bellies, and old folks hobbling back and forth to the restroom. And people sleeping while sitting up. 'Cause in the real ER, you do an awful lot of...
...waiting.
If Zelda had not fashioned a homemade tourniquet to stanch the flow of blood, we might have seen a lot more action, but as it was, even after the triage nurse examined her, we waited for two hours before being called into a room.
And then the fun really started.
Dr. Red Duke danced into Examination Room 10 to have a look-see. I, your humble reporter, tried everything within my power to refrain from having a look-see. I held The Periodic Table at eye-level, effectively blocking Dr. Duke, Zelda, and more importantly, the parts of Zelda that began bleeding when Dr. D ripped the gauze away. Can you bend this finger? Dr. Duke asked. OOOOWWWW!?! Zelda cried. Uh-oh... I moaned, as the room began to spin. I dashed from the room to keep from fainting but the head rush I got from standing up so quickly only made matters worse. I'm gonna faint in front of all these nurses if I keep standing here I reasoned, wondering if my insurance would charge me two co-payments if I did. So I wobbled back into Room 10 and sat down again. Dr. Duke left to retrieve his bone saw from under the seat of his buckboard as I tried with every ounce of strength I had to regain my composure.
I didn't fool a soul.
A nurse, who had seen me standing up against the outside wall, followed me into the room. Are you about to faint? she asked.
Yes, ma'am, I am.
Come on, we got to get you outta here.
I'm afraid to stand up.
You got to go she said as she dragged my pale, clammy butt out of the chair, shoved a cup of ice into my hand, and pushed me outside into the fresh air. When you feel better, you go back to the waiting room she ordered, muttering something about men's and women's thresholds for pain.
So I meekly took a seat in the waiting room along with the other moaning sickfolk. I was being no help to anyone. And I hated it.
I had received a disturbing e-mail earlier in the day that a good friend had been rushed to emergency surgery for a problem we thought had been fixed months ago. Zelda was behind the swinging doors getting bits of glass dug out of her fingers. Some guy across the room was doubled over in pain between trips to the restroom to, well, you know... And I wasn't doing a bit of good for any of them.
I tried to pray but I felt so impotent. What does it mean to pray for one another? To pray for God's presence, which he already promised us? To pray for healing, which may or may not be in His will? To pray for His will, which may mean that they suffer (say it Chris, say it: or that they die)? That He "bless" them and the doctors and nurses? What does that mean?
There, in that waiting room, I felt very, very small.
Emergency! Crisis! Adam, go boil some water! Bill, grab some bandages! Chris, bend over and put your head between your knees! We don't need two invalids.
posted by Chris @ 11:01 PM
0 Piquant Remarks:
Post a Comment
<< Home