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“If this is an emergency, call 911, and go to the nearest Emergency room.” I have been to several. The settings are different, but they all follow the same protocol.
“Who brought you here”
“Can we have your Insurance card?”
“What is your complaint?”
“Fill in these forms. When you finish, the nurse will take you in”
From this point on it is the best to remain calm, regardless how you feel and what you think. It is a real test of patience and self-control. I am not very good at it, normally. Here, at the mercy of ER staff, I am a model of a patient, perfectly self-controlled and very polite.
It is amazing the questions they ask about you and your whole family, including the dead ones. Another thing: no mater what brought you in, there will be a bunch of X-rays taken, whether you want it or not.
My last visit to the Emergency room was at Martha’s Vineyard Hospital. It was funny and educational. It was not funny when it happened, but it surely is funny when I think about it.
I fell getting out of my chair and landed, sideways, on the deck. Once I am on the ground I cannot get up. I managed to crawl into my living room and saw blood on the floor. It was my left arm with two large swollen open wounds and the blood was just flowing. I could not stop it. I called my son in New York: “Get to Emergency room, immediately. Get somebody to drive you there.”
“Nonsense, I can drive myself.”
“You cannot drive with one arm while the other is bleeding. Call 911 for the ambulance. Right now!”
I wrapped my arm with a towel and a lot of Cling Wrap. I drove with my right arm. Apart from being worried, I enjoyed my brave adventure.
The receptionist asked me who brought me in. “I drove myself.”
She shook her head and yelled: “Doctor, come and see, this woman drove herself and is still bleeding.”
The doctor took a quick look, ordered a wheel chair. “But I can walk,” “Not here, we have to look at you first. Nurse, clean her up and see if you can stop the bleeding.” She took me to a nice large examining room, with comfortable bed and TV. I stayed there for four hours. They took X-rays of my arm, of course, but then they took quite few of my head.
I protested: ”I did not fall on my head, I fell on my left side and I am fine except for the left arm.” As a patient you have no rights, just follow the orders.
The nurse explained: “This is a hospital rule. We must make sure there is no concussion or some injury. It will be very fast. You will be released as soon as the results come in.”
The results came in. Everything is OK. I was ready to go home. “You have to wait for the doctor. She won’t be a minute.”
I was getting impatient, asking whoever walked by to please call my
Doctor. “I have not seen her for two hours, I just want to go home.” Getting slightly hysterical, I stepped out of my room. There was nobody on the whole. floor. ‘Well, I am just going to walk out of here.’
As I was getting dressed the doctor came in:
“I apologize for keeping you waiting. The policeman brought in a local boy eighteen years old. He was in a car crash. Severely injured. The whole ER staff is doing everything possible to keep him alive. I hope you understand.” She signed my release form. “You are fine, all tests are negative.”
As she quickly walked back I suddenly felt embarrassed and humbled. I wanted to run after her and apologize for my impatience and selfishness. It was too late. She was gone.
When I got in my car I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. All I could do was to drive myself home with my right hand while the left one was resting in a sling.
They took good care of my arm. They save lives, treat all cases major or minor and generously take care of hypochondriacs.
I salute Emergency room staff!
The Emergency Room. My contingency plan. I’m resting in it now. It used to be a living room, with a small white leather couch, facing the unused fireplace. In theory, a retreat room, but with no doors and no privacy, not really a place to which I could retreat with three children in the near-by family room playing Ninja, watching TV, fighting, banging, clomping, and opening cabinet doors in the kitchen that would make me think, “Huh? What are they into now?”
We thought to keep the room nice for company, a place without toys, but anybody who ever visited us lingered in the spacious family room with a double slider view of our back yard, and milled around the kitchen island in the warmth of cherry cabinets. The living room was an unused annex.
So, we turned it into a dining room. Long dark birch table with ivory painted legs, matching birch windsor chairs, set on a braided rug of rusts and browns. Hired an electrician to hang a chandelier from the center of the ceiling. Tucked a glass fronted hutch filled with Waterford crystal and Buchnan pottery in a corner. Created a place to host holiday dinners with a crackling fire for good cheer. Which we did, once or twice. But, we spent most of our holiday dinners at our in-laws, and most of our family time, eating in the kitchen. For the majority of the year, the formal dining-room was nothing more than a 10’x12’ setting for country charm that I dusted sporadically, and glanced at occasionally, on my way up the stairs with baskets of folded laundry.
And so, we transformed it again, back into a livingroom. With the children older, I found I did have moments. Sitting on a small, forest green velvet sofa, I read under the light of a tarnished, brass floor lamp. But not often. The room was still the step-child of the house. Even with the bricked fireplace, it had no personality, no allure, no real purpose.
Until, I added a desk. Mid-life awakenings, and rumbling creative urges, and I wanted a place to write. I eyed a long, narrow buffet table with a leaf that could be extended for extra width as a potential writing desk. With that one subversive act, the room became mine ~ my emergency room, the room in which I would begin to emerge, as a seeker, writer, artist.
Even without doors I managed to steal private time. I began to love my room. Here I did not have to accommodate others’ wishes, or belongings, or design choices. Not since the days of being a teen-aged girl in a room painted lavender with a purple shag rug, had I known such design freedom.
As if I had been given a blank canvas, and a new set of acrylic paints, I used my freedom to cover the dark green wallpaper with lucious images dripping in color. I ripped from gardening magazines, photos of flowers ~ bold hibiscuses in oranges and yellows blooming in terra cotta urns ~ velvet roses in fusias and reds climbing up white trellises. I lusted for beach scenes ~ a villa in the Greek Isles, an uninhabited white sand hide-away in the Caribbean, an Adirondack chair set against a Cape Cod surf. I covered the mantle with shells and seaglass and starfish. Filled the bookshelves with my favorite authors and poets. Built a collection of music to fill my space with sound. Placed a standing wrought iron candle holder on the fireplace hearth.
And oh, the joy of buying touchstones for my writing desk ~ a pink alabaster paperweight in the shape of a heart, a child’s toy kaleidoscope, glass fish in tropical colors. For the first time since we bought the house, the room had a personality. Because it was taking on my personality, it was as “in the middle of the mix” as I was at mid-life. My room and I were a little bit old, a little bit new, and a lot not yet revealed, but shimmering on the horizon.
I emerged as a writer in this room. First essays, and then poetry, memoir pieces, and now, the start of a novel. I don’t remember which came first, my membership in a writer’s group, or the claiming of my creative space, but in my mind, the two are linked. In baskets overflowing, in binders protective, in files on my laptop, this room now houses my work, the work that proves, See? I only needed the space to write, and voila!
Three years in, my husband stripped the deep green wall paper, painstakingly respackled the damaged walls, and I chose, with no second opinion, a soft shade of ocean blue paint. Rainbow colored seaglass spills out of glass bowls and candy dishes all over “Mom’s room.” Hanging in front of the white sheer curtained windows are aqua and purple starfish, and a witch’s orb swirling in amethyst and yellow. And, another surprise I could not have predicted before moving in. A jeweler’s craft table sits opposite my writer’s desk, with a different type of work in progress ~ the seaglass necklaces and earrings I sell to stores.
My eighteen year old daughter loves my room. She asks me, after seeing a floral collage in process, if I’ll make one for her room. She admires a new seaglass pendant, dangling against a white velvet board, and I give it to her. I’m glad my daughter will remember watching me breath life into a space that was form without function. What I might have become, had I not, in perfect time, found my own “emergency” room.
It was not, as I recall, one of my better summers. I had been doing temp work at a bank where I was hoping to get hired permanently. At the time, I had been recently dumped the evening of a semi formal dance and I was having a hard time coping. I was so upset and distracted that I had an accident in the bank parking lot. It seems I backed into someone’s BMW and dented it. Ok, the thing crumpled like a beer can. The owner was my boss’ boss. So much for a permanent job.
My nonexistent love life getting on my nerves, working out regularly helped me relieve some stress. It was paying off in that I was at least getting stronger and feeling pretty fit.
One of my best friends was famous in our circle for throwing some great house parties. The upcoming backyard summer Olympics promised to be no exception until…..
I arrived at Linda’s house late as usual and after the standard picnic overeating the alcohol came out. I do not recall overindulging that afternoon. This is sort of a shame since I don’t have the ‘hold my drink and watch this’ excuse that frequently precedes these kinds of mishaps.
True to form, the party was well planned. Games were set up and there were prizes to be had. For some reason, I decided to try my hand at some of the games. Henceforth referred to as mistake number 2. Mistake number 1 was probably staying sober. As I mentioned, I was working out and feeling pretty fit. Still, I went for something easy just to get a prize. Accountants are not known for hand eye coordination or fine motor skills so anything requiring aim of some form was out. I went for a jump rope contest and won easily.
Shortly after that, it happened. There was a tug of war. About eight of us, guys and girls mixed, four on each side were set up, rope in hands. Shortly before this (mistake number 3) I decided that I was going to try my hardest against the other team and really dig my heels in. As we started, two people on my side fell away and the third let go. I stubbornly hung on. (Note to self: feminine pluck and determination, however admirable cannot alter the laws of physics.) I fought the law and the laws won.
I am told a photo of me in mid-air exists although I’ve never seen it. I do, however, remember the landing. It was more of a bounce followed by a thud.
Something in my hip went – and I quote – “CRACK!” When I didn’t get up under my own steam, Linda flew into action. I had a ride to the emergency room and my car was taken care of. Luckily, a friend who hadn’t completed his residency was drafted and off we went.
After the x-ray, Kevin helped me hobble onto an exam table where I waited for the results. While he chatted with the doctor reviewing my films, I was answering a bunch of questions from the nurse. “Any allergies?” “No.” “Any chance you’re pregnant?” “No.” (See nonexistent love life.) “How did you get here?” “Abject stupidity.” “Oh, Kevin drove me.”
After explaining to me what an acetabulum is and how I managed to fracture mine the doctor sent me home with a pair of crutches and some groovy pain medication. A week later I went back to my temp job. I passed my boss’ boss in the hallway with my crutches. I’d swear he was smiling a little too broadly! Miraculously, I managed to get hired permanently. “Welcome to the company.” Nancy said. “Randy wants to know where you plan to park!”
Mom and Michael’s Trip to the Emergency Room!
Cast of characters: me, my mother, my mother’s eccentric friend Paula, and cameo appearances by my sister Sarah as well as a friendly Mass Pike motorist
The opening seen takes place in my bedroom on a sweltering humid Sunday afternoon in July 1986. My mother had just finished helping me classify my GI Joe and Star Wars action figures, comic books, and what few cassette tapes I owned then (probably the Monkees). She is standing over the very right hand corner of my bed. In her Boston accent she has once again reiterated the importance of making my bed every day and the relationship between the top sheet, bottom sheet, and the blanket. And how that trio is rounded off by their friend the pillow who lives in his snug little pillow case.
“Dee-ah, I kahnt emphasize in-uf: Ya need ta make yaw bed. ‘Specially nex’ weeken’ when yaw sistah’s new in-laws come ovah to visit faw tha firs’ time. Ah-right? Say ‘ah-right’ Gaw-dammit!”
“Fine. Alright, God Damn It!”
“Don’t be fresh! Now go find the kah keys ‘cause we need to pick up Say-rah from wirk.”
“Fine,” I replied with a shrug. As I turned around to head into the hallway to see if the car keys were anywhere in sight I heard what sounded like a door slamming shut followed by mother letting out another –and this time involuntarily – “Gaw-Dammitall!”
“Mum, what’s wrong?” I yelled/asked as I ran back into my bedroom.
“I just hit my foot ‘gainst that Gaw Damn plank!” She pointed to the odd sized wood planks that hung out between where the twin bed frame ended and the box spring began. The twin frame was an antique and we needed to use something better than slats. The odd sized planks hanging out crooked were the from the doings of an 11 year-old who used his bed not just for sleeping but also for jumping on, using under the bed as an imagined secret army base, and for laying out board games for friends sleeping over. The mattress was also lumpy and caused a lot of tossing and turning. Come to think of it, the mattress was so old it felt like it came over on the Mayflower.
I cannot remember if my mother’s foot swelled up or not. I do know she used words worse than taking the Lord’s name while she slipped on her espadrilles.
Once we were on the Mass Pike into Boston to pick up Sarah from her job that summer Mom realized that she had the times wrong and we had ample time to still get to mass. With that said, we arrived at the Boston waterfront off of Atlantic Avenue. Sarah had a job as a singing waitress on the tourism industry specific “Spirit of Boston” harbor cruise. Near wear the Spirit of Boston docked was a small chapel designed for and by mariners and their families. Inside we heard mass surrounded by photos and miniatures of fishing vessels going back, also, to the time of the Mayflower.
After reminding God how wonderful He is Sarah had docked and we were on our way. But not with the usual sense of speed and urgency my mother normally had. She had to use her left foot to operate both the gas and break petals. This required Mom to use the petals and get back onto the highway with a judicious heir. That said, we got to the big toll plaza in Weston – thankfully we were outbound traffic on a sleepy Sunday evening when people are driving inbound after a weekend either on the Cape or in New Hampshire or on Sarah’s employer the cruise ship – leaving the lanes almost totally open. Mom went to hit the brakes with her left foot and we almost skidded into the left shoulder. Thankfully, first and foremost, it was my Dad’s car at the time which was a hulking Ford LTD (cop car) and, second, a very kindly older man slowed down, got right and let my mother get back into the lane we needed for exiting the Turnpike.
“Merciful, mutha ruv gawd. It’s a wondah we wirnt killed!” said Mom.
“Jesus, Mom, you should get out and let someone else drive!” said Sarah.
The problem with that was I was only 11, Sarah was 19 but due to an affinity for public transportation didn’t have a driver’s license, and Dad and my brothers were on a pre father of the bride sailing excursion. Our oldest sister Maryellen was the one getting married in six days. Maryellen is not just the oldest but also the most headstrong and she would be arriving from out of state to pick up the dresses and all the other logistics of going into a wedding. This also meant making sure our house – especially my bedroom – was decent enough to show her soon to be in-laws. As we got home my mother went into a state of panic. Her foot now swelling and hurting every time she tried to put pressure on it lead her to exclaim, “I don’t think I could go down the aisle – thah mutha uv thah bride – in a wheel chay-uh aw on kah-rutchiz!”
Sarah and I got her up the front stairs. Sarah went and put on MTV and started in on calling her girlfriends and drinking Diet Coke for the remainder of the evening. Mom and I rationalized that she needed to get to the emergency room. The problems that faced us were the following: a lot of people in Wellesley are out of town for the summer; my Dad was amongst that list while he sailed, and neither Sarah nor I could drive. Finally, we opened Mom’s address book and started calling people to drive us down to the ER. We finally got hold of my parent’s eccentric friend Paula. While Paula was very successful as a real estate agent she was known to get a reaction out of people with her practical jokes and her clever schemes. The most infamous of these was when she and my Dad dressed up like a priest and a nun and then drove to a liquor store to convince the cashier that the clergy deserved a discount on alcohol.
When Paula answered the phone she spoke in a deep muffled voice.
“Hullo?” said Paula.
“Paula?”
“Who the Hell is this?!”
“It’s Michael. Carol and Dick’s son.”
“What? Oh, hello, Michael dear. What can I do for you?”
“My Mom hurt her foot and needs a ride to the emergency room.”
Because of her history of practical jokes she thought this was some kind of boy who cried wolf comeuppance and started chuckling.
“Really? How? Did Darth Vader get her with his light saber?”
I’m now laughing and fretting as my mother was getting frustrated with this exchange.
“My-kull! Tell Pauler its serious! I’ve hirt my foot an’ need an axe-ray!”
“Paula, this is serious. Mom really did stumble earlier and now her foot is red and stuff. Can you come get us, please?”
“I’ll be right there, dear.”
We arrived not long after that to Newton-Wellesley Hospital. They took my mother in almost right away with it being a somewhat slow night. She was about to be treated until an ambulance pulled up. She then spent the next couple of hours lying on an ER hospital gurney with her foot raised and on an ice pack. During these couple hours Paula bought me a pack of gum from the vending machine. Paula also explained that she answered the phone in a funny voice because her own daughter – about Sarah’s age – had just broken up with a ne’er do well and he was calling Paula’s house day and night trying to mend the fence with her daughter. She figured if she answered the phone in a funny way the dolt would think he had the wrong number or just plain take the hint.
Paula would probably have done just as well for herself if she wrote for – at the time – Johnny Carson. In the 90s when Paula retired from real estate she lived briefly in Florida near where the Red Sox have spring training. She took a part time job selling souvenirs, popcorn, and programs at the same park where the Sox trained and had the exhibition games. I think Paula envisioned herself exchanging funny barbs with Floridians and sports journalists. Instead there were a series of retired Wellesley snobs who recognized her and were appalled. I think she gave them some barbs but weren’t as entertaining.
After an evening of coming me entertained and consoled while my mother waited for an X-ray and a healthy dose of codeine but instead they discharged her with crutches.
“The reziden’ and the intirn said the x-ray came back negative and that it’s probably a sprain or a bruise. I hahv to stay off my foot faw the res’ of the week.”
By the rehearsal dinner five nights later Mom had recovered enough to walk in a straight line and not tire out or have to limp. Thankfully Maryellen had only an informal wedding.
Freshly washed hair, wrapped in a turbaned towel,
hurrying, hurrying, always hurrying, dressed in jeans and
standing in the back of our old-fashioned long, narrow closet,
I reached up to the top shelf to get something of the utmost importance.
It was so many years ago; I have no memory of what I needed so badly.
But I do remember knocking over a little
box during my hurried, turbaned reach,
as I fretted that my hair would dry too fast,
and I’d have to take precious time to wet it all over again,
The little box fell—followed by a sharp, stinging stab.
I glanced down at my jeans. Smack dab in the middle of
my right Tibialis anterior muscle (that’s in the front of the lower leg) was a number nine crochet hook.
Its tiny, narrow hook has the perfect point to make those darling, dainty doilies.
I thought perhaps I could remove it and I gently pulled the handle but my muscle moved right along with it. I was hooked. I released my grip with a nauseating shiver.
The shock had paralyzed my voice. My mind did the screaming for me and graced me with numerous scenarios.
“I can’t drive with this thing in my leg.”
“ I’ll have to make payments and cut grocery money somehow to pay for the expensive emergency room and ambulance ride.”
“Who will watch our five kids?”
Yes, I did say five. That’s why I was always meeting myself coming and going like the rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland.” Constantly echoing his song in my mind, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important…(whatever)”
Tears ran down my cheeks as I resigned myself to suffering the embarrassment of a turbaned head, and the humiliation of answering questions about how the hook landed in my leg in the first place. I imagined the emergency room staff ripping the pant leg of my best jeans. I feared the pain of a tetanus shot and the tearing of my tibialis as they dug the number nine out of my leg.
I sheepishly hung my head and cautiously tiptoed out of the closet back into the bedroom. As I woefully walked toward the phone, the crochet hook fell onto the floor.
Judy Safford
April 2, 2009
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