Troublemaker in the ER
I spent last Sunday afternoon in the ER after coming within 1/8" of amputating the tip of my left index finger with a nifty new bagel knife. Having been a big proponent of bagel-cutting safety for years, I am rather red-faced over my injury.
Fortunately, I can hardly remember the last time I was in the ER. I believe it was when I slipped on wet pavement while carrying groceries and my then 3-month-old daughter. She got a black eye and I wound up with some really good hot sauce--and glass from the jar--imbedded in my leg.
Unfortunately, over the 12 years since that last visit, I had forgotten ER protocol. I failed to recall that hospital personnel like patients to sit down, be quiet, and accept the staff's authority without question. Uh-oh. Not a good combination, self-appointed authorities and me.
First, they didn't like that I paced around and around. I had planned to spend the afternoon canvassing for my favorite candidate for public office, so I was in a "let's walk" mode. Not to mention, the ER was frigid, and I was almost shivering. In addition, there was no reading material available, and, although the TVs were tuned to CNN, the sound was so low that I would have had to be a lip-reader to get the news. So, I paced, drawing exasperated sighs and disapproving looks from hospital staffers--which I pretty much ignored.
I did sit down for a little while, to drink some of the water I had brought, and to try to catch some news. A woman sitting near me started telling me about her miserable daughter, miserable grandchildren, and her miserable daughter's miserable cat. I thought I had suddenly been sucked into the Twilight Zone.
While this woman chattered away, I drank my water, applied lip balm, and tried to eat a Tic-Tac mint. Into my left hand--the injured one--I accidentally dispensed two mints instead of one, and attempted to flip them into my mouth. One hit the mark and the other went down the V-neck of my shirt, lodging in my bra. I looked around and saw that my talkative companion, plus the young woman across from us, had seen my little trick. With my good hand I fished for the Tic-Tac, popped it into my mouth, grinned, and proclaimed, "It's still good!" Both women cracked up.
My companion was called to a treatment room and I resumed my pacing. I had used henna to paint some designs (mendhi) on my hand earlier in the week, and another hand laceration patient noticed and commented on it. Surprised to find someone else in this neck of the woods who knows what mendhi is, I stopped pacing to chat with her and her two friends. We ended up talking about Indian weddings and customs, and then she asked me about the campaign sticker I was wearing. It turned out she is in my district and hadn't yet heard of my candidate. So I filled her in. By the time the staff was ready to take me back to a treatment room, I had gained promises from the patient--and both of her friends--to vote for my candidate on November 8.
I was shown into the treatment room and left to chill for another 40 minutes. Really chill. I was shivering by then. After all the water I drank between laps, I had to "go." So I found the restroom and went, then back to the treatment room, where a woman, who didn't identify herself--actually none of the staff did so--noted the designs on my left hand. In a condescending tone, she asked if I always had a "smiley face" on my hand. I told her it was a henna painting, but it didn't seem to matter to her. She said that an x-ray was in order because I may have hit the bone with the knife, then she left. It turned out that she was the doctor, but I only learned that when reading the Rx she later gave me.
I was again alone with nothing to read or do. I had recently cleaned out my purse, so it was pointless to do that again. I decided to make the best of my time in hospital limbo by practicing Deep Water, the Jewel song I've been learning. I have to sing it fairly loud in order to hit a couple of the more difficult notes, so I was sure that, even with the door closed, my voice carried beyond the treatment room. I sang it twice, and wondered how many other people might sing while waiting to have a part sewn back together.
The doctor came in and told me I needed a tetanus shot. I didn't feel like arguing, so I circumvented it by telling her that I have a religious objection to vaccinations. She tersely said I would need to sign a waiver, and bustled out to get one. When she handed me the paper, I noticed that it was a standard refusal form on which she had listed the procedure opted out of, and the potential consequence. In the latter space she had written in huge letters, "POSSIBLE DEATH." I almost laughed at the intimidation attempt, but managed to stifle it.
The terse doctor administered the anesthetic to my finger and the webbing between it and the next finger, warning me that "this is the worst part." It did sting pretty badly, but I focused on breathing and got through it just fine. "Not as bad as childbirth," I quipped. "Oh, you must not have had 'help,'" she replied. "I had a homebirth and a birthing center birth, both natural," I answered in a purposely factual tone. "Oh, those midwives..." she began to tisk. "Yes, they are wonderful," I responded. Not what she was thinking. "I had an epidural and I'm glad I did," she countered in a defensive tone. Some people think everybody has to do things the same way or somebody is wrong. I don't look down on women who choose a medicated hospital birth, but I don't appreciate when someone looks down on me for choosing to give birth differently. "Well, I had some pain," I acknowledged, "but I also learned techniques that are still useful." "Oh, the breathing exercises," she said, as if she couldn't have been bothered. "Yes, breathing and focusing. They're both helping me right now."
The doctor changed the subject, asking in rapid succession, "How many children do you have? How old are they? What schools do they go to?" I realized I had struck out when I told her I homeschool. Strike one: refused the tetanus shot she thought I should have. Strike two: rejected the medicalized hospital birth she preferred. Strike 3: reject the public schools where she sends her kids.
Oh, yes, then I had the gall to ask her about the x-rays. "What might they show?" I asked. She answered with just a little impatience, "Whether you chipped the bone." I kept asking. I can't help it. It's my nature. "What if I did?" Annoyance furrowed her brow. "Then it would require a different treatment." Her tone dripped with irritation and condescention. She thought her non-answer would satisfy me. She was wrong. "How?" I asked. "You would have to undergo surgery," the doctor answered through tight lips. Oh. I was satisfied then. She finished sewing and left.
The x-ray technician was friendlier and fast, so that was no big deal. Then back to the treatment room where another unidentified staffer did such an exceedingly poor job of bandaging my finger that the whole wrap--splint and all--slipped off some hours later.
They gave me my prescriptions and walking papers, I checked out, and headed for the warm outdoors. Finally, I was free! Four hours had passed, and I had missed the canvass, missed the event for which I had RSVP'd, missed picking up the nice bicycle a friend wants to give me, still had to get my prescriptions filled, and I was tired, even though I felt like I had accomplished nothing. The last time I cut my finger badly was twenty-three years ago. Perhaps the memory of this hospital visit will remind me to pay attention when using sharp objects--for the next twenty-three years.
-Shay
(c) 2005 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved
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