“EGADS, REALLY?!?!?!”

Went to the emergency room the other day.

Not me personally, (although I did try to lop my left hand off once while using a chain saw on a pesky peach tree).

Fortunately just as I reached out to pull back a particularly stubborn branch, I realized that the whirring blade would not differentiate between wood and my tender flesh).

Millimeters away from being Edward Scissorhands.

Or Edward Scissorhand.

But I digress.

So the recent incident involved a dear friend of mine who is a surgical tech in the operating room where I work.

She is a magnificent creature.

Clever, adorable and quite skilled at her job.

On this particular day while setting up her next case she went to place a scalpel on the sterile field and BLOOP!

It leaped from the table and began its descent onto the non-sterile floor.

Now here is the part that your brain plays back in slow motion at a later time.

Your logical brain screams, “Man down, everybody clear!”

While the impulsive, instinctual side of the brain instantaneously screams, “Catch it before it reaches the ground!”

So apparently the impulsive side was the master of the universe that day and therefore she reached out to grab the nose-diving knife.

Poke…….

Flesh giving way to razor sharp steel.

“Yeowiiiieeeee!”

Now mind you that was not her yelling like a stuck pig, but all of the folks who witnessed the carnage.

She was a bastion of courage and quietness, striding to the sink to stave off the spurting wound, while others whirled around her in disbelief.

I don’t blame the squealing witnesses, as the blood splattered floor and doorway looked straight out of Dexter.

Meanwhile the punctured arteriole spurted and squirted like PeeWee Hermans' lawn sprinkler.

Out of the chaos voices of clarity.

“She needs to go the ER”

“She needs to sit down”

“She needs to bite on a bullet and have a shot of whiskey” (not really, but sorta)

I stepped forward and said, “let me get a wheelchair and I can take you to the ER!”

I’m sure my Superheros cape was flapping in the breeze as I shouted this edict.

Considering that fact that I am older than 90% of my co-workers, I am generally thought of as one of two things,

1. Crazy old dog lady (guilty as charged) or
2. The “Mamapandza” (well, duh!)

So my “mama” gene kicked in and I wanted to make sure that my little chick was attended to properly.

Pronto!

There is a large, winding corridor separating the hospital where I work from the hospital next door which houses the Emergency Room.

I began to sprint down this hallway, my adoptive work daughter stoically holding on to her wheelchair for dear life until I could deliver my precious cargo to the automatic door of the ER.

Considering that I had knee surgery last December, she probably could have chosen a better and faster carrier pigeon for this process.

In we go, flying past the doors into the inner sanctum of the hallowed place.

The ER.

People think it stands for Emergency Room.

When in fact it is French for “EGADS, REALLY?!?!?!”

Inside this magical waiting area of pandemonium are all sorts of humans in various stages of injury and illness.

There are the usual falls off of a ladder,

“Yes, doctor, I thought I could reach that last Christmas light on the corner of the house while standing on the top rung of a ten foot wobbly ladder using a cardboard shoe box for additional height.”

 “Yes, I realize it’s July, but I believe in taking my time with household chores.”

The butt-clenching cuts,

“Yes doc, my can opener was made in 1902 and was once a prop on Little House on the Prairie, is that a problem?”

My sister was opening a can of soup for her husband the other day and almost lopped off the end of her finger.

This validates my contention that cooking can be hazardous to your health.

No never ever sliced open a digit on a Taco Bell wrapper!

It was so gruesome that when she took off the bandage I had to cover it with my hand when we were having any kind of conversation.

Otherwise I would peer at it like a bad train wreck and not hear a word she was saying.

Until it was healed it looked a little bit like a turtle head….

But I digress.

There are the burns that defy explanation.

My Mother once severely burned her hand while boiling a pot of water to make a cup of coffee.

Doc:  “Ma’am, you do realize that in this day and age you can actually buy a coffee maker?”

“And since you are over 80 years old, I know you are not on a contestant on “Survivor”, AND unless you want your other hand to resemble Freddy Kruger's face, please invest in this wonder of modern technology.”

My Mom:  “But I’ve always done it this way!”

Doc:  Sigh….

But I digress.

Anyway, here we go flying through the automatic doors, flags a flyin’, only to come to a screeching halt at the admissions desk.

Clerk: “May I help you?’

Us:  “Nope. Just wondering where we should go to lunch today and decided that your vending machine offers some pretty amazing fare, so we thought we would roll on in!” 

“Plus this free lemon water is out of this world.”

“OF COURSE YOU CAN HELP US!”

Clerk: (glaring)  “What seems to be the problem?”

Now to be fair, the job of a triage clerk in the ER is somewhat like being St. Peter at the gates of Heaven.

“Oh sure it’s important for you to get inside!” “But I know there is nobody in here that knows you!”

BTW, Triage is French for “Sit down while I figure out whose dying the fastest.”

Prioritizing the extent of symptoms, disease, and injuries can make for a long afternoon.

This lady was not amused by my glib antics.

Me: “She injured her hand.” “She grabbed a 10 blade scalpel to keep it from hitting the ground and it jabbed into the fleshy part of her palm.” “She’s bleeding pretty badly, hence the blood soaked towel and the ashy pallor of her face.”

Clerk:  “Do you have insurance?”

Sigh…..

By now my chicklet is pretty much at the end of her proverbial rope and I am glad we didn’t bring the offending scalpel with us for show and tell.

I picture her leaping from the wheelchair and doing some serious Benihana slice and dice on the clerk.

Hey, we already had the towel to clean up any evidence!

But anger and frustration is the norm of ER folks and would not have done us any good except that they would have handcuffed her (and me) to the wheelchair.

So deep breath……and then answering the required administrative paperwork stuff.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the patient is losing her patience as well as a good part of her blood volume.

Clerk: “Okay, sign this and someone will see you shortly.”

I’m thinking, “Can she sign it in blood?”  “Oh wait, she has no blood, BECAUSE IT’S DRAINED FROM HER LIFELESS CORPSE!”

Now in ER land, “shortly” can mean a little while, or it can mean “when we take care of all of these other people who are sicker than you, or it can mean, “Can someone check that skeleton in the corner and see if it still has a pulse, and an insurance card?”

Luckily, we must have appeared desperate enough to warrant pronto attention because a few minutes later a kindly nurse appeared.

We were wheeled inside, only to be deposited into another room where we were told to wait.

They do this to give you the impression that you are one step closer to seeing a doctor and to keep you from pummeling the annoying precocious snot-nosed three old sitting next to you in the waiting room into a bloody pulp.

Like when you are almost at the front of the line in Disneyland…….

and then you see a billion people in a zig-zag line hidden behind some cartoon shaped bushes.

This room had a wall that was decorated with inspiring messages, Dream, Hope, Peace, Serenity, Live, RELAX, Heal, BELIEVE.

It did not escape me that relax and believe were in capital letters.

I took it to mean, “You better RELAX if you BELIEVE you are getting out of here any time soon!”

My charge proceeded to make a rude, yet satisfying finger puppet gesture that displayed her opinion of these admonitions.

With her good hand.

At this point in time my sick mentality went into high gear and I began to take pictures.

“We need to document this!”

“GRRRRR…..”

I will spare you the gesture pic.

It was hilarious.

Eventually a nurse poked her head into the room and wheeled us off to do vitals and assess the situation. 

She proceeded to proclaim, “Your blood pressure is a little high.”

“REALLY, I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY THAT WOULD BE?”

“I AM TOTALLY SHOCKED I HAVE ANY BLOOD PRESSURE AT ALL SINCE I’M HOLDING MOST OF MY BLOOD VOLUME IN THIS TOWEL ON MY LAP!”

They must have decided that we were shady, loud characters who might reek havoc in the waiting room and found us a cubicle actually INSIDE the ER.

Believe me when I tell you that if you ever go to an ER, everyone within 20 feet will end up knowing your bloody business.

I believe this is a universal rule, as it has been this way in any ER that I have ever seen.

All of the “rooms” are gurneys which are approximately 2 feet apart, surrounded by curtains on those dressing room type slide tracks.

So you will be privy to the Joe Blow next door who is howling because he has a fence post imbedded in his upper thigh. (I bet there is a juicy story behind that hot mess)

Therefore be aware that privacy is not the order of the day.

Hopefully you have an ER buddy to be on the look out while you put on your backless, butt revealing hospital gown.

Fun stuff.

Into our “room” swooshed the ER doctor who was a delightful, harried, kind young man to assess the wound.

He looked like he just came from junior high school..

As I get older, it seems like all professional people appear to be 14 years old.

I imagine them playing with Legos and crayons on their breaks.

This is especially upsetting with airplane pilots.

The number one criteria for an ER doctor is to remain calm and have the same, “that’s not too bad” look on their face at all times.

He peeled back and towel and witnessed the carnage.

(Spoiler alert!  For those of you with weak stomachs, you better skip this next part!)

“Hmmm, yes, it appears you have poked a big hole in your hand which is causing the blood to squirt around all willy-nilly and make you sad.” (my translation)

“I don’t think the damage is too extensive.”

“I may just have to suture the interior part of the wound which seems to be causing most of the bleeding and the outside might just need a stitch or two.”

Translation:  YEOWWEEEEEE!

“We will inject you with a small amount of local anesthetic which will enable me to close the wound without you grabbing me by the hair and poking out my eyes.”

“Cuz I use my eyes.”

“Everyday.”

Me: “So are you a good doctor, or did you draw the short straw to work in here?”

 (I believe in getting right to the point)

Doc:  “You’re funny.”

Me: “No, I’m not kidding.”

Woosh, the curtain flies back and he disappears into the bowels of the ER,

(My charge, who we will now refer to as Dani.)

Dani: “Good job, now you scared him off!”

“It was a valid question!”

Dani:  “Sheesh, but he won’t be sewing angry on YOUR hand!”

In the curtain strolls a nurse who informs us that she will be prepping Dani’s hand for the procedure.

This entailed pouring lots of really stingy stuff on the open hole and then wiping it up.

Dani was not amused by this process.

She then laid out all of the items required for the hand repair.

In this plethora of nonsense was the lidocaine syringe which was going to be used to numb the wound for the major stitch work.

In reality this needle is probably a couple of inches long, but when it is being used on YOU, it looks and feels to be a little short of a foot.

The doc returns and because he is treating 13 patients at once is a little scattered, albeit efficient and kind.

Doc: “I’m going to inject the lidocaine now so I can painlessly stitch you up and send you on your way.”

Me:  “Dani, do you want me to hold your hand while he does this?”

Dani: “Maybe that’s a good idea.”

Good for her, not so much for me.

As Doogie Howser starts his numbing quest which entails methodically jamming this needle directly into her open wound over and over and over again, she attempts to crush every bone in my hand, one at a time.

Dani: “Yeoweeeeeee!” “What the freakity, frickety heck are you doing?”  “Owwwwwww!!!!”

“So glad you are giving me this so you won’t HURT ME!”

“WHAT DO YOU CALL THIS?!!?”

Doogie is unfazed.

Her rant falls on deaf ears.

Doc: “Almost done.”

Well that was good news because the only bone in my hand that was not reduced to powder was my thumb.

And Dani was a sweating, pale heap on the gurney.

Doc:  “Okay, now I can start.”

Me:  “So are you good at this or did you get the same grade that I got in sewing class?"

Failed Slip-Stitch 101.

Doc: (Giving me that shut-up-before-I-injure-you look), “I’m actually pretty good.”

I think WE will be the judge of that.

Thus he begins to dig and stitch and pull and tuck.

Closing the offending spurting arteriole and working his way to the surface with tiny stitches which looked “pretty good”.

Nothing Frankenstein-esque in his work.

It all culminated in a tiny stitch which looked as harmless as a shaving nick.

A whole lot of blood from a miniscule vascular well.

Dani was relieved that there was not long term major damage and that she did not require Miss Scarlett to saw off the offending limb.

I was relieved that Doogie was finished and gave him a weak but intact thumbs up.

I commissioned Dani to pose for a final gown-wearing wound bandage closure picture.

After the obligatory discharge instructions, “Do not drive a car after taking the drugs we are giving you for when you get home."

"Have a party instead.”

We rolled back to work where we were met with shouts of relief and multiple pats on the back and the head.

So the day was saved, the hand was puffy yet still usable and all went back to “normal” in the Emergency Room.

I am sure they were not sorry to see us ruffians leave.

But we hadn’t eaten lunch and were famished and thirsty.

“Hey Dani, are you still on board for some snazzy lemon water and vending machine fare?”

“Hop back in that wheelchair Missy, I know just the place!”

…….I’m Just Sayin……..