July 06, 2005
i've met some terrifically impatient people in my time, but i've never really considered myself to be in line with such anxious entities...until now.
now that I cannot type with two hands or tie my shoes or set my hair out of my face and into a pony tail. brushing my teeth has taken on a whole new meaning as well has the perfunctory tasks of eating with utensils, opening jars, showering and dressing. i have become as impatient as a turtle stranded upside down upon its shell. the only difference being that i can audibly whine about it.
i dislocated my right shoulder satuday night. and, yes, i am right handed. ugghhh.
it seemed like such a harmless little maneuver, the switch back over the rock garden and onto the grass, but my feet were incapable of gaining the traction necessary for this type of move. my right foot slid swiftly to the left, as i rounded the corner chasing after my best friend's little eight year old boy, and simply kept on sliding before i could regain my balance. i felt the air between my body and the ground and, for a split second, i caught the sideways image of the little boy before me, still running as though being chased by a six foot, graceless giant. i could hear the shrill giggles of his excited voice becoming faint within my ears and then the dull thud of my shoulder impacting the hard, uneven and verdant ground below.
impressive fumbles call for impressive recoveries. i hopped up from the spill and forced the smile which grew in awkward curves about my face. this seemed to detract the number of eyes focused on me and yet i could not contain the pitiful yelp which escaped from my skewed smile.
"ouch," i sputtered while holding my right arm and wincing in pain.
i hobbled over to the boy (not the vicious eight year old who caused all this turmoil, but rather my boy) who was safely sedentary at a picnic table and retold the story in mangled bits of words welded in shock.
i heard the phrase "...anyhow, it might be dislocated," but i was not sure if it came from my own mouth or someone else's.
i pleaded with the party goers that were surrounding me, hoping that someone knew how to fix such a injury, but most of them just stared at me in a drunken haze. right around the time my head started spinning out of control and just after my stomach began swirling in olympic like style, my best friend, mollie, returned to the party.
"what happened?" she exclaimed upon seeing my face contort into a raisen-esque fashion.
i only recall trying to point a shaking finger at her adopted, eight year old, tike of terror. whatever was actually communicated, though, came from the boy's lips and not my vengeful, nonexistent pointing capabilities. besides, it really wasn't her son's fault or i would have already dropped kicked the little bastard to the curb - dislocated shoulder and all...
after feeling the affected area and listening to me babble about my lack of insurance for ten minutes, mollie and the boy piled me into the acura while i assured everyone else that i would be right back and ready to rock and roll once they popped my shoulder into its original location. for all of you who have had the pleasurable experience of visiting an emergency room, you already know that I was not, indeed, going to be returning to the party anytime soon.
any amount of disinfected space which is inhabited by a modicum of men and women sporting green sleep wear and rigid facial expressions can be closely compared to that of any bottomless pit you've recently visited - time is of little importance, laughter is frowned upon (as well as any sort of comfort or empathy) and all of their compassion was left outside of the rotating doors before they began their evening, weekend shift. plus, chances are that you are going to become quite familiar with that eerie, echoing scream usually associated with a bottomless pit fall resulting in your ultimate doom.
but i digress...
we were lucky enough to be admitted into the ER on game night, which you can experience for yourselves every saturday at your local hospital, wherein every nurse competes for the honorable title of 'biggest bitch.' as a spectator, you are only required to pay an entry fee of about $2000. for an extra fee of about $1000, you can sign up for the always thrilling 'pin the IV needle into the vein' game where you are required to flag down any old thug off the street so they can blindly pierce your flesh in miscellaneous areas that do not visibly accommodate veins and probably never have. your reward for such a sacrifice is the hearty knowledge that this inexperienced asshole will continue to make more money in one month than you'll ever see in your lifetime and he didn't even have to do it correctly.
kinda like being a weatherman.
luckily, the x-ray gal thought that i had a sprained left ankle and therefore i had an opportunity to delay all consequential pain associated with raising an arm that i could not move nor stand to have handled in any way. after the first f'ed up set of x-rays and an apologetic do-over, i turned to mollie while being carted away in a wheel chair and asked if my arm was, indeed, disconnected.
"um, laura, it's not disconnected. it's dislocated," she said in as kind a voice as possible after such a ridiculous question.
"oh, well, it's the drugs talking, you know."
"um, laura, you haven't been fed any drugs yet."
"oh."
i have a new found hate for hospitals.
finally, i was drugged up and inspected by a 'doctor (whose real job was probably assistant basketball coach at your local high school).' the boy stood vigilantly by my side as the doc began moving my arm and noting the 'furrowing' going on over my eyes.
"furrrrrowing," i repeated, "that's a good word."
"does this hurt?" he might have asked.
"furrowing," i replied.
"okay, i'm going to move your arm up and backwards, laura."
"furrowing."
"how would you rate your pain, laura?" he inquired.
"furrrrroooooowing," i replied.
and then the deed was done. i barely recall seeing my arm outstretched toward the curtain nor the smirk upon the boy's face following my enjoyment for the word 'furrow,' a sling was applied and about fifteen minutes later, i was coming in and out of consciousness to the boy's beautiful visage. mollie departed and the world ceased its vicious spin cycle of pain. all seemed well until i had to use the bathroom.
the nurse informed me that i was only qualified for a bed pan, which i readily declined, and soon i was in hurry to recover from the drugs so that i could make the journey to the bathroom by myself. a half hour later, i was begging and pleading to brave that lengthy 10 yard trek to the ladies room, but the nurse insisted that the IV bag, which was no longer dripping and realistically had not been for about a half hour, absolutely MUST accompany me. in the bathroom, she pointed to the emergency cord and i nodded emphatically hoping she would understand the urgency with which i was gesturing. apparently, basic physical movements indicating certain emotions in english on a non-verbal basis was not her forte.
"are you going to stay here with me or can i go pee alone?"
nurse bitch number 3 left, i relieved my bladder, impatiently struggled with my jeans for about five minutes and pulled the cord. done.
well, not done. an hour and a half later of hurry up and wait, we were finally given general instructions on how to apply ice 4 - 6 times daily, avoid operating heavy machinery while under the influence of vicodin and basically not move for the duration of the recovery.
hurt sucks...