Caribbean ride (the irony being that I’d be covered in crabs). “Cherie! Cherie!” I screamed. She was used to equating my excitement with shoe sales and the one time I fixed the garbage disposal.
“You get a big one?” she yelled back.
I simply raised my gory limb, which led her to dive into the surf. Cherie hoisted me to the shore like a superhero; I’ll never know how, she is half my size. I could hear her heaving breaths and closed my eyes against the harsh sunlight. And then everything went fuzzy and I blacked out. When I awoke, my daughter was crying and shaking, and some women from a nearby house were tying a tourniquet of checkered napkins around my leg. They raised me up like a casualty of battle and carried me to our Tahoe, which was parked nearby.
In the backseat, my daughter held my hand. And then a strong maternal rush overcame me and I focused on the emotional toll this episode would have on her and not the throbbing pain of my largest appendage. “It’s nothing but a scratch, sweetie!” I lied. “It’s nothing, I’m going to be fine. What movie should we see tonight?”
She looked at me as if to say, “You think I’m an idiot?Don’t try to distract me; you think I want a one-legged mother?”
When we arrived at the emergency room, I was pushed, at a snail’s pace, into the building in a wheelchair. I had envisioned people flying to get out of the way as fourteen doctors and nurses ran on either side of a gurney, holding my hand and screaming, “Stat.” The staff being played by the cast of the nineties hit ER . But no, I was passed off at the administration desk to a woman who looked like Julianna Margulies if Julianna Margulies ate only pies and drank only lager. “Insurance card,” was all she said as she mechanically extended her hand. There was no, “I see that you’re covered in blood, in a great amount of pain, and about to vomit . . . how can we help?”
I filled out a clipboard of forms. Did I have to enter the hospital carrying my own leg to rouse any concern? At that point I was so delirious, I think I may have charged my hospital stay to an old boyfriend.
I was told to wait. Okay, fine. I sat in the sterile waiting room with Better Homes and Gardens magazines from 2001, blood-soaked napkins knotted around my leg, and a hysterical eight-year-old. Good plan. At one point a very bored woman (whose daughter had a sprained ankle and was getting X-rays) turned to me and said, “I think you’re so funny! What are you working on now?” On what planet, looking at the state I was in, was thatquestion appropriate? Of course, I not only answered her but also launched into my top-ten favorite movies and why, in my opinion, Sly Stallone’s comedic chops are always overlooked.
A nurse came over—with a painkiller, I prayed—and asked if someone could please remove my daughter. I suppose a shrieking little girl in a blood-spattered bikini was unsettling for people doing crossword puzzles and sipping cold coffee. Cherie covered her in an old sweatshirt and drove her home.
I was taken into the heart of the ER with its stretch of beds divided only by sheets. As I lay on my cot, I counted the pockmarks on the stucco ceiling and listened to the groaning woman next to me. I shuddered to think what her diagnosis was. All I knew was that it involved salad tongs.
And like a game show host, the sheet was whisked open and a young doctor appeared. “Hi! I’m Dr. Cole!” Dr. Cole looked like one of my kids’ camp counselors. His hair was a little long and unkempt and he was too tan to be an ER doc. He inspected my slash and swiftly responded, “Okay, well, I’m going to inject a Novocain-type substance into the wound and after about thirty minutes stitch it up!”
I sat straight up. “You’re going to stick a needle in my leg?”
He nodded.
I blacked out again.
An hour later, once again, the sheet was wrenched open in a swift and terrifying manner. My friend Holly, who lived
“You get a big one?” she yelled back.
I simply raised my gory limb, which led her to dive into the surf. Cherie hoisted me to the shore like a superhero; I’ll never know how, she is half my size. I could hear her heaving breaths and closed my eyes against the harsh sunlight. And then everything went fuzzy and I blacked out. When I awoke, my daughter was crying and shaking, and some women from a nearby house were tying a tourniquet of checkered napkins around my leg. They raised me up like a casualty of battle and carried me to our Tahoe, which was parked nearby.
In the backseat, my daughter held my hand. And then a strong maternal rush overcame me and I focused on the emotional toll this episode would have on her and not the throbbing pain of my largest appendage. “It’s nothing but a scratch, sweetie!” I lied. “It’s nothing, I’m going to be fine. What movie should we see tonight?”
She looked at me as if to say, “You think I’m an idiot?Don’t try to distract me; you think I want a one-legged mother?”
When we arrived at the emergency room, I was pushed, at a snail’s pace, into the building in a wheelchair. I had envisioned people flying to get out of the way as fourteen doctors and nurses ran on either side of a gurney, holding my hand and screaming, “Stat.” The staff being played by the cast of the nineties hit ER . But no, I was passed off at the administration desk to a woman who looked like Julianna Margulies if Julianna Margulies ate only pies and drank only lager. “Insurance card,” was all she said as she mechanically extended her hand. There was no, “I see that you’re covered in blood, in a great amount of pain, and about to vomit . . . how can we help?”
I filled out a clipboard of forms. Did I have to enter the hospital carrying my own leg to rouse any concern? At that point I was so delirious, I think I may have charged my hospital stay to an old boyfriend.
I was told to wait. Okay, fine. I sat in the sterile waiting room with Better Homes and Gardens magazines from 2001, blood-soaked napkins knotted around my leg, and a hysterical eight-year-old. Good plan. At one point a very bored woman (whose daughter had a sprained ankle and was getting X-rays) turned to me and said, “I think you’re so funny! What are you working on now?” On what planet, looking at the state I was in, was thatquestion appropriate? Of course, I not only answered her but also launched into my top-ten favorite movies and why, in my opinion, Sly Stallone’s comedic chops are always overlooked.
A nurse came over—with a painkiller, I prayed—and asked if someone could please remove my daughter. I suppose a shrieking little girl in a blood-spattered bikini was unsettling for people doing crossword puzzles and sipping cold coffee. Cherie covered her in an old sweatshirt and drove her home.
I was taken into the heart of the ER with its stretch of beds divided only by sheets. As I lay on my cot, I counted the pockmarks on the stucco ceiling and listened to the groaning woman next to me. I shuddered to think what her diagnosis was. All I knew was that it involved salad tongs.
And like a game show host, the sheet was whisked open and a young doctor appeared. “Hi! I’m Dr. Cole!” Dr. Cole looked like one of my kids’ camp counselors. His hair was a little long and unkempt and he was too tan to be an ER doc. He inspected my slash and swiftly responded, “Okay, well, I’m going to inject a Novocain-type substance into the wound and after about thirty minutes stitch it up!”
I sat straight up. “You’re going to stick a needle in my leg?”
He nodded.
I blacked out again.
An hour later, once again, the sheet was wrenched open in a swift and terrifying manner. My friend Holly, who lived
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