MVC, bedpan manner, HCG
An Jewish man and his wife are gonna have a baby. Sadly, she dies in labor. As is customary, he marries her sister. A year later, she passes away as well. As is customary, he marries the youngest sister, Rosa. A year later, she goes into the hospital to have a baby. The doctor comes out and says, "Don't laugh, but Rosa also died..."
This is how I felt when I had to call work and tell them I'd be absent again because I had another car accident. "You're not gonna believe this, but...."
Well, this time, the awesomely obvious FUCK YOU, and exquisitely appropriate end to a perfectly FUCK YOU type of year, occurred in the same geographical area and at the same time of the day, but I wasn't alone and the husband was driving. The husband is an excellent driver: he has never had as much as a fender bender in the last 23 years. It's part of the superhuman charm that attracted me to him in the first place. But the road was perfectly slick and smooth with pavement that was laid down, like, yesterday, so when the cars in front braked suddenly, and he braked too, the car refused to stop and glided happily forward. He said, "Shit!" And turned the wheel to avoid a head on collision, but it was too late and we slammed into the BMW SUV in front of us.
I really hate those 0.05 seconds just before the accident when you totally know it's about to happen.
So there I was, one moment, taking my gaze away from my reflection in the passenger-side visor mirror and onto the rapidly approaching rear end of the other car, and the next moment trying to figure out why my eyes are watering profusely.
The airbags deployed, the windshield cracked, and the car filled with smoke.
"Are you ok, are you ok, are you ok?" I asked like 10 times not registering the answer at all: "I'm perfect, I'm perfect, I'm perfect." Then, "Get out of the car! Get out of this car!"
We got out of the car, coughing and gasping for air (well I was, anyway). Holding on to my chest, which was really sore because of the seatbelt, the airbag, and probably my knees, which I tend to draw up to my chest instinctively whenever the driver brakes too fast. We always used to joke that one day I'll damage my kneecaps with my nose. My kneecaps seem to be ok.
The guy we hit prudently pulled over 100 feet down the road - in case we blow up? -and a good samaritan stopped and called the police as we worked on catching our breath.
The statey arrived. Here, I'd like to take a short aside and raise the question of why do people in a position of power feel that it's acceptable to express derision and be rude in general to people in distress? This statey must have been a bully in high school or something... "you want the ambulance?" I'm palpating my own neck.... "I don't know... it kind of hurts... I don't know..." Blank stare. Husband says, "she's a doctor, but she doesn't know..." A poorly concealed roll of the eyes: "Yes or no?" and a facial expression that quite clearly says: "I don't care about what or who you are, you want the effin ambulance or not?"
Yes! Since I can't quite look all the way to the left... or the right.... please do. Do us the favor of calling the ambulance like it's your job.
I didn't deal with the statey thereafter, but hubby did, since to add insult to injury, and a kick to the fuck, it turned out that his driver's license was about 4 months expired. The likely triumphant statey gleefully made out a detailed citation notice and handed it to the guy with the totaled car and the concussed wife and rugburn on his baldspot (from hitting the car ceiling). Strong work. Criminals like this must be punished. And under no circumstances should they be humored and aided in finding the phone number of the dealership where they have just dropped their other car, so as to be able to call the dealership, pick up the other car, and have a manner of getting to the nearby hospital where the aforementioned concussed wife will be undergoing medical evaluation. No way.
And may I just digress for a second. Yes, I forgot my keys in the door the night before the accident, and yes, I left the camera plugged in on the desk, giving Blueberry easy access to lick the LCD and eventually flick the $1000 camera to the floor with his powerful tail... and ironically, yes, those examples of my lacking sense of responsibility were what we were discussing in the seconds before the crash... but, ahem, my driver's license is in good standing. My honey IS human after all. And I am so glad!
What followed next was a surreal sequence of events that started with me getting decorated with a collar, placed onto a rigid board and getting my head taped down, and ended with me contemplating life and love atop a bedpan in the ER. [don't read this next part if you're squeamish about peeing] I'm not kidding. "But I'm a healthy 30 year old!" I pleaded. "But you can't get up until your C spine is cleared!" "But I have performance anxiety! I can't get it up for this bedpan!" "But if you don't, you'll have to wait until after your xrays!" "But I had a large coffee and my cup runneth over!" "But you might twist your neck, and sue us later!" "But what if I promise not to turn my head or sue anyone later?" Even with husband hissing outside, waterfall-like, to encourage micturition, I still couldn't do it. It's all about mind over matter. Peeing lying down on purpose past a certain age, and before some other certain age, just ain't right.
All in all, we're quite happy with our accident experience. For one thing, we're here making jokes about it to you, and not to that saint who guards the Pearly Gates. Plus, we scored 15 soon-to-be extinct percocets. Which, by the way, was a hilarious trip to the pharmacy. The pharmacist, after refusing to fill prescription number 1 secondary to failure to find the sticker with the date and doctor's name (it was on the back), kept having to "check with her manager" to see if the percocets from prescription number 2 could be dispensed to the suspicious bald character with the same last name as the prescribee and an expired driver's license. How does anyone ever overdose accidentally on percocets if buying them requires bargaining skills akin to what you might need when getting a deal on a used car? But like I said, we're happy overall, because we did score percocets, and we are alive, albeit whiplashed, and that's what matters.*
And back to taking xrays, what better way to find out that you're not pregnant? "Any chance you could be pregnant?" is fairly standardin the ER, and most people will emphatically shake their head no, but I requested a blood test, since I was actually supposed to have official end of cycle labs done today anyway.
"We'll have to do that before your xray," they warned. "babies, gonads, radiation... bla bla"
What better way to find out the results than when they take you to xray without saying a word 30 minutes later?
"Well. I guess I'm not pregnant?"
"Huh?"
Fabulous.
* I jest. Percocet is a physician prescribed medication that I wouldn't dream of scoring in any way, and would only dream of using it as directed. I'm a responsible patient.
This is how I felt when I had to call work and tell them I'd be absent again because I had another car accident. "You're not gonna believe this, but...."
Well, this time, the awesomely obvious FUCK YOU, and exquisitely appropriate end to a perfectly FUCK YOU type of year, occurred in the same geographical area and at the same time of the day, but I wasn't alone and the husband was driving. The husband is an excellent driver: he has never had as much as a fender bender in the last 23 years. It's part of the superhuman charm that attracted me to him in the first place. But the road was perfectly slick and smooth with pavement that was laid down, like, yesterday, so when the cars in front braked suddenly, and he braked too, the car refused to stop and glided happily forward. He said, "Shit!" And turned the wheel to avoid a head on collision, but it was too late and we slammed into the BMW SUV in front of us.
I really hate those 0.05 seconds just before the accident when you totally know it's about to happen.
So there I was, one moment, taking my gaze away from my reflection in the passenger-side visor mirror and onto the rapidly approaching rear end of the other car, and the next moment trying to figure out why my eyes are watering profusely.
The airbags deployed, the windshield cracked, and the car filled with smoke.
"Are you ok, are you ok, are you ok?" I asked like 10 times not registering the answer at all: "I'm perfect, I'm perfect, I'm perfect." Then, "Get out of the car! Get out of this car!"
We got out of the car, coughing and gasping for air (well I was, anyway). Holding on to my chest, which was really sore because of the seatbelt, the airbag, and probably my knees, which I tend to draw up to my chest instinctively whenever the driver brakes too fast. We always used to joke that one day I'll damage my kneecaps with my nose. My kneecaps seem to be ok.
The guy we hit prudently pulled over 100 feet down the road - in case we blow up? -and a good samaritan stopped and called the police as we worked on catching our breath.
The statey arrived. Here, I'd like to take a short aside and raise the question of why do people in a position of power feel that it's acceptable to express derision and be rude in general to people in distress? This statey must have been a bully in high school or something... "you want the ambulance?" I'm palpating my own neck.... "I don't know... it kind of hurts... I don't know..." Blank stare. Husband says, "she's a doctor, but she doesn't know..." A poorly concealed roll of the eyes: "Yes or no?" and a facial expression that quite clearly says: "I don't care about what or who you are, you want the effin ambulance or not?"
Yes! Since I can't quite look all the way to the left... or the right.... please do. Do us the favor of calling the ambulance like it's your job.
I didn't deal with the statey thereafter, but hubby did, since to add insult to injury, and a kick to the fuck, it turned out that his driver's license was about 4 months expired. The likely triumphant statey gleefully made out a detailed citation notice and handed it to the guy with the totaled car and the concussed wife and rugburn on his baldspot (from hitting the car ceiling). Strong work. Criminals like this must be punished. And under no circumstances should they be humored and aided in finding the phone number of the dealership where they have just dropped their other car, so as to be able to call the dealership, pick up the other car, and have a manner of getting to the nearby hospital where the aforementioned concussed wife will be undergoing medical evaluation. No way.
And may I just digress for a second. Yes, I forgot my keys in the door the night before the accident, and yes, I left the camera plugged in on the desk, giving Blueberry easy access to lick the LCD and eventually flick the $1000 camera to the floor with his powerful tail... and ironically, yes, those examples of my lacking sense of responsibility were what we were discussing in the seconds before the crash... but, ahem, my driver's license is in good standing. My honey IS human after all. And I am so glad!
What followed next was a surreal sequence of events that started with me getting decorated with a collar, placed onto a rigid board and getting my head taped down, and ended with me contemplating life and love atop a bedpan in the ER. [don't read this next part if you're squeamish about peeing] I'm not kidding. "But I'm a healthy 30 year old!" I pleaded. "But you can't get up until your C spine is cleared!" "But I have performance anxiety! I can't get it up for this bedpan!" "But if you don't, you'll have to wait until after your xrays!" "But I had a large coffee and my cup runneth over!" "But you might twist your neck, and sue us later!" "But what if I promise not to turn my head or sue anyone later?" Even with husband hissing outside, waterfall-like, to encourage micturition, I still couldn't do it. It's all about mind over matter. Peeing lying down on purpose past a certain age, and before some other certain age, just ain't right.
All in all, we're quite happy with our accident experience. For one thing, we're here making jokes about it to you, and not to that saint who guards the Pearly Gates. Plus, we scored 15 soon-to-be extinct percocets. Which, by the way, was a hilarious trip to the pharmacy. The pharmacist, after refusing to fill prescription number 1 secondary to failure to find the sticker with the date and doctor's name (it was on the back), kept having to "check with her manager" to see if the percocets from prescription number 2 could be dispensed to the suspicious bald character with the same last name as the prescribee and an expired driver's license. How does anyone ever overdose accidentally on percocets if buying them requires bargaining skills akin to what you might need when getting a deal on a used car? But like I said, we're happy overall, because we did score percocets, and we are alive, albeit whiplashed, and that's what matters.*
And back to taking xrays, what better way to find out that you're not pregnant? "Any chance you could be pregnant?" is fairly standardin the ER, and most people will emphatically shake their head no, but I requested a blood test, since I was actually supposed to have official end of cycle labs done today anyway.
"We'll have to do that before your xray," they warned. "babies, gonads, radiation... bla bla"
What better way to find out the results than when they take you to xray without saying a word 30 minutes later?
"Well. I guess I'm not pregnant?"
"Huh?"
Fabulous.
* I jest. Percocet is a physician prescribed medication that I wouldn't dream of scoring in any way, and would only dream of using it as directed. I'm a responsible patient.
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