Daveed Reviews

The ER

The next time I need a ride to the emergency room and my choice is to either walk or let Kyle Russell drive me, I’m taking the sole train. Dude is easily the funniest, wittiest guy I know, hands down, and he’s always on. But, trying to contain guffaws of laughter while keeping your clavicle from popping through your skin is no easy task. And the next time I need to drive a load of nitro glycerin or ancient artifacts across even a mildly bumpy road, KR will not be my choice of driver. He must have a little ADHD working, because he gets so wrapped up in just talking, I think he forgets that he’s driving. Then it comes crashing back to him as he’s heading for the cement divider at the toll tag reader, and he snaps to, throws the wheel around for a moment to correct, then gets back into his stand-up.

At the entrance to the ER, Kyle jogs in to find a wheel chair. He returns a few short moments later and says one’s on the way, and, sure enough, there’s Nurse Fokker to wheel me into triage (why do they insist on using military terms?). Fokker explains that he’s just getting off duty, but wanted to get me in and let me know that he felt my pain, as he was just getting back on his skate board after breaking his collar bone. Once I’m checked in, Kyle runs off again to properly park and to put on clothing a little more flattering than the Tenzing Lycra.

I imagine that everyone that goes to the ER assumes that their injury is the worst of any patient there and will undoubtedly receive treatment immediately. I now realize that you don’t want to be the first guy that gets to see the doc, because that really means your more effed than anyone else. Thankfully, or not, it took a while to get treatment.

A nurse enters and takes some vitals and offers me some meds. I opt for the oral, because I’m a man’s man. I get a pill and she leaves.

Kyle returns sporting the latest GQ style: dress shoes and socks, cargo shorts and a short sleeved dress shirt. Now that he no longer has to use 1% of his brain to drive, he is doing his best to be sure that if I don’t have any broken ribs, I will before he leaves. Bryd Man joins us and is enough distraction for Kyle that my ribs are safe – for now. Soon, Rudy’s with us and Kyle gives up completely and turns on the telly to check out Dancing with the Stars.

At some point I’m wheeled off for pictures. The X-Ray tech asks me to stand in front of metal box that looks like it would protect Clark Kent. I can do that. I’m still cradling my arm to my chest, and that just won’t do for the type of shot she wants. I guess she wanted me to show her sexy, and you can’t do that when your boobs are covered by your forearms.

“Can you move your arms down?”

I take a deep breath and lower my arms.

“Oh, my god” she says (btw, it’s never good when you are in the ER and you hear a member of the staff use those or similar words).

“What?” I’m wondering if I have a big booger hanging from my nose, which, even under these circumstances, would be tacky.

“Your clavicle!”

I put my left hand on top of my shoulder and I can feel something sticking up that I did not want to feel at that moment – dare I say it? – a boner. Yes, protruding up at a 45 degree angle away from my head, about half way between my neck and the tip of my shoulder was the jagged, pointed piece of my clavicle, still under the skin but straining very, very hard to get outside for a proper look-see.

The room started to swim a little, I began to tremble (great for X-Rays), my mouth tasted a little more coppery, I started to sweat profusely (thank god I was properly hydrated!) and my pain level went from a smirking 2 up to a grimacing 4.



By the time I was rolled back into Trauma Room 2, I was a mess.

I big, bald man, Billy, and a short, loud, trashy blonde woman, Lisa, marched in and started spraying my road rash with watered down Palmolive and then scrubbing the rash with gauze pads. Billy, noticing the vein sticking out on my temple and the chattering of my teeth, asked if I wanted a real pain killer. I nodded, and Billy returned with a syringe filled with fluid that felt like it contained gasoline as it entered my butt cheek. They left to let the meds go to work.

Kyle caught sight of the finger poking out of the top of my shoulder and became visibly weak-kneed. He soon left for home. Ha! Take that!

The nurses returned to finish cleaning my road rash. A PA was called to examine the gaping hole between my first and second knuckle, probably the first part of me to come in contact with the ground. I was asked to move my middle finger. I did. Rudy gamely took a peek (I, on the other hand, kept watching Harry Hamlin butcher that poor woman’s toes) and said she could see the tendon moving back and forth and some bone. The PA was afraid that I had nicked the tendon, so she loosely laced the hole together and told us to mention it to the orthopedic surgeon the next day.

At some point, Brydie disappeared and Robbie replaced him, along with his 8year old son, Kaden, who had also recently broken his collar bone. Kaden would not look at me, totally grossed out by the bone protruding from my shoulder.

One more shot for pain and I was released. Rudy used the trauma scissors to cut off what remained of my kit. She helped me balance while I feed first one foot, then the other into a pair of pajama bottoms. A button up shirt was draped over my shoulders. “Button it Beaner style” I mumbled. She accommodated, buttoning only the top button.

Rudy took me home where she applied Tegaderm to my leg, buttocks and shoulder. She gathered nearly every pillow in the house and got me all comfy on the couch, complete with a water bottle filled with ice and water and an old quilt under me to catch the road rash drippings. Then she ran off to pick up the scripts that we had dropped off at Wallgreens on the way home.

She set up shop on the other wing of our sectional, ignoring my muted complaints, and slept there in case I needed anything. Every time I was awake, she was, too, asking me if everything is OK.

My sleep that night was more of a daze. I felt that I must have woken up 100 times, my head buzzing from the meds and aching from being used as a landing pad. I would then close my eyes and, with a little effort, be back in my daze.

posted by daveed @ 13.9.06