3:12 a.m. - 2006-03-24
Just Call Me \"Grace,\" Goddammit.
BFRB isn't allowed to talk anymore. Ever.
Well, maybe she's allowed to SPEAK. She is NOT, however, allowed to say shit like "my life couldn't be going any more smoothly right now" or "you haven't done anything super-klutzy lately."
In the case of the former, she immediately was faced with some issues at the office, a cat with a mystery illness, and a fender-bender with a dumb-ass bitch who didn't want to stop, didn't want to exchange insurance information, clearly was at fault for the accident, and then proceeds to call BFRB's insurance company while BFRB is stuck in a meeting and file a claim.
In the case of the latter...not four hours after this conversation takes place, I'm trying to mop my bathroom. If you will recall, my bathroom is a step higher than my hallway. This has been a problem in the past. I was attempting to scrub a spot of Super Kitty Hairball Surprise off the step part. I 409'd, I used a Pledge wet wipe, I empty the trash can, and then I promptly forget about the spot I just mopped...and slip. And fall. And hear something snap.
After I quit screaming and managed to scoot on my ass to a location where I could use something for leverage to stand, I send an Instant Message to BFRB:
I take some Aleve, send an e-mail to Lando because we had planned to chat when he got off work:
And then off we trot to the emergency room.
BFRB asks which one, since there are two which are about the same distance from our house. Rather than repeat this experience, I pick the other choice.
Which proved equally stupid.
We pull up to the door, and I notice a wheelchair sitting there...so I suggest we put it to its intended use. By this time, remember, I had to hike down all the fucking stairs at my apartment, and my foot was really starting to hurt. BFRB pulls the wheelchair to the car, wheels me inside, and sorta hits the sliding doors on the way in. She parks me momentarily, gets a check in form from the stupid bitch behind the bulletproof glass, mentions that she might have gotten the door stuck or something, then goes to park her car.
I fill out the form (basically just name/DOB/address) and am attempting to wheel toward the window. This moronic hosetard SEES me doing this, and instead of making an effort to grab the form, or have someone hand it to her, just gives me this "fuck you" look.
After a little waiting, I see the triage nurse. She takes my blood pressure, ensures that I'm not knocked up, diabetic, asthmatic, or allergic to anything, gives a glance at my foot (which is now starting to grow something that looks like a tumor of a bruise), and sends me back out to wait. Before being wheeled back to the waiting room, I ask if I might possibly get an icepack or something. She says "sure"...and then says "I'll see if I can get around to that."
Evil ho.
More waiting, and then I get taken back to a room. At this point, Lando calls. I tell him the story so far, and he jokes about hot lesbian doctors, and distracts me for a few minutes while BFRB goes to sneak a smoke.
Eventually, a PA student comes in, does some poking and prodding, takes an abbreviated medical history, and promises to come back shortly with the doctor. (She was much nicer than the mean nurses at the other ER, who barely looked at me.)
Twiddle thumbs. Flick through the channels on the TV. Discover "the Patient Channel," "the Newborn Channel," "the Spanish Channel" and the local networks. There were a few cable channels, as well...but of course, CNN, which really seemed the best of a bad lot, didn't come in for shit. We find Sex & the City later, and it doesn't come in for shit either. But by god, ESPN comes in.
BFRB surprises me by wanting to check out the basketball game. I'm all "you got yourself involved in a BRACKET, didn't you???" She admits this, and then gets pissed off because UCLA is losing, and we get to quit with the ESPN.
Doctor comes in. Leaves. X-ray tech comes in. Takes x-rays. Leaves. (The x-ray tech was interesting. He was probably in his 40's, and talked about motorcycle wrecks, etc. I got the impression that he probably had a really interesting life story to tell. He looked a little rough to be having a hospital job.)
PA comes back, finally, with x-rays, and shows me some little bone chip or something floating around, and something about a fracture. I make sure that the bone chip is not going to break loose and end up causing a brain embolism or heart attack or something (it's not). She then says that someone will be along to put a splint on it.
Here's where the REAL waiting starts.
We see lots of nurses on lunch break, who are all talking about cake and not feeding us any. We see doctors and nurses and interns flirting. We see a chick who was in a car wreck wandering around, talking on her cell phone, giggling a lot, and holding her neck brace in one hand. More food. More folks. More fun.
No splint dude.
A very striking African-American chick comes in. She gives me the privacy policy, asks about insurance, and asks about a Living Will. I confess that I don't have one. BFRB is all "but I e-mailed you one last week!" Yes. But dammit, I hadn't filled that shit out yet. (She cops to not doing hers, either.) Her clipboard has pictures taped to it. She is very pleasant and friendly.
Eventually, a nurse comes in, hands me a prescription for some painkillers (greedy bastards...my dentist gave me more than that for a scaling), tells me not to drink while I take them (what a fucking dumb ass...of course I plan to wash them down with an adult beverage, especially since they didn't give me very many), and makes some more noises about the Appearance of the Amazing Splint Boy.
We pass along that we'd like to go the fuck home now, thankyouverymuch, and could she make him HURRY?
Finally, at about 1:30 (am), he shows up. (We arrived at 10:03 p.m., according to the time-stamp on my form).
My leg is wrapped in some gauzy shit. Splint Boy proclaims that it's fun to throw at people (he had to have been at least my age). BFRB, irritated by this time at the lack of work going on, mentions that something else unrolls like that, too...it's called toilet paper. Splint Boy then reveals that if you soak a roll of the TP in water, and throw it at a car, it makes a big dent.
Great. A joker.
Then we play with some sort of plaster molding putty, and some ace bandages, and some more ace bandages, and finally, I'm all trussed up like a mummy. Theoretically, this can be removed for bathing purposes, etc.
Dear god, what a pain in the ass.
I elect to skip the pharmacy tonight, because (a) it's not that close and (b) why waste a perfectly good painkiller buzz on sleeping? Plus, it's not like I can be all high at work, so I'll just go tomorrow. Also...I thought I was tired.
Clearly, not as much as I thought.
Tomorrow. Today. Whatever. It's going to suck big purple donkey dicks from the sky.
