ER – Straight From the Heart

It’s been a long, hot, stressful summer of extreme heat, rain, tears, and frustration. Working in the yard was and still is like digging a bottomless pit in the desert. There’s no end to the misery, as if I’m being smothered to death by a vicious monster of chaos.

But yesterday was my day to get back on track. I am going to finish one natural area before the sun goes down if it kills me. And if it kills me, I won’t have to worry with it anymore.

When we first moved here, thirty-plus years ago, I had a brainy idea to make a natural area down our long driveway and border it with rocks. And that’s what we did. The rocks were free, thanks to a nearby farmer, allowing us to dig up as many rocks as we wanted. And seven truckloads later, we had enough rocks piled in the yard to build a house!

This summer, I got another brainy idea. Let’s undo it all. I can’t keep up with it anymore. It’s too hard, and I’m too old and stressed out to mess with it. It was good in its day, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s got to go. Low maintenance is my motto these days. Besides, it won’t take that long, a few weeks, tops.

HA! Five months later, my low-maintenance landscaping dream became a Freddy Krueger nightmare of rocks piled sky-high in the backyard, scattered in the front yard, the side yard, and even in the neighbor’s yard, who got several trailer loads for his natural area.

I never do anything halfway. It’s either all or nothing, so I created other natural areas in the front and backyard and embellished them with rocks, creating little landscape monsters to grow up and devour me when I get old and haggard with only one brain cell left.

So, back to the beginning. The sun was going down, I was hot, tired, and hungry, but feeling relieved that I was almost done. I couldn’t wait to get cleaned up and maybe celebrate what’s left of my birthday.

My husband pulled up on the lawnmower, and as we chatted, I noticed tiny mosquitoes swarming around the hole in the ground where I was sitting. Then I noticed something else. Something mean and sinister, like devils from the pit of hell. Suddenly, like a turtle in slow motion, I scrambled to my feet and yelled, “Yellow jackets!”

I can’t believe this! How stupid can I be? I thought he killed them all the last time. Same place, same stupid rock, same idiot repeating the same episode that happened a few short months ago.

Yellow Jackets! Singing, “Happy Birthday to you” while setting my arms and legs on fire. Visions of my last encounter shot me into panic mode as I hobbled into the house, moaning and kicking myself in the butt. Splashing cold water on my arms and legs, my husband yelled, “Where’s the Benadryl? Where’s the Peroxide? Where’s the alcohol? And I just wanted him to shut up, get the gun, and shoot me!

My husband called 911, and I promised myself I wouldn’t spend ten days in hell before finally marching my butt to Urgent Care. And since it was already closed, I climbed into the ambulance and went straight to the ER.

Three agonizing hours later, my name was finally called, and relief was on the way. I’d already received a shot of Benadryl in the ambulance with no side effects. Then came the IV and three vials of medication. Still no side effects. But when the nurse added a more potent dose of Benadryl into the concoction, I knew this was the day I was gonna die! My number’s up! Saint Peter’s waiting, arms open wide at the pearly gates, singing, “Happy birthday to you!”

Well, I didn’t die, I just had a frightening reaction to the medication, which caused a full-blown panic attack and visions of the Grim Reaper pounding at my door.

I guess you can’t live for seventy-nine years without a little danger and excitement. That would be boring. Besides, grandkids and great-grandkids don’t want to hear about Cinderella and Tinker Bell these days. They want to hear about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer, and how much blood poured out, and how many stitches she got, and if it hurt! Real grandma stories with bloody meat on their bones!

Rocks and bushes are gone. All we need now is grass.

The ER was the last place I wanted to be. Unless you’re half-dead, it can take hours before your name is called, and then you’re taken to a room where you sit and wait some more. That’s why I decided to go by ambulance. Made sense to me.

When we arrived at the ER, I was pleasantly surprised to see a smiling nurse standing beside a gurney waiting for me. Elated that my plan worked, I imagined being whisked away to a happy, sunshiny room and covered with a warm, fuzzy blanket. No waiting. No begging for pain relievers. No getting the brush-off like a bum on Skid Row.

And there’s my room. My cold and lonely little room, where I was wheeled on a bed of nails, writhing in pain and left to slowly freeze to death. Where are my people? My angels of mercy? My warm, fuzzy blanket? My PAINKILLERS?!!

My husband’s warm hands and sympathetic eyes were the only comforts in this desolate room. I’m grateful for him. I love him to death. He’s my best friend, my Knight in shining armor. But right now, I’d trade him in a heartbeat for a painkiller!

The minutes crawled by. Then an hour. Then another. Finally, a nurse came in, his smile brighter than his snow-white jacket, asking more questions than Judge Judy. “What’s your name? How old are you? Are you allergic to anything? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain?”

Finally, the song and dance ended, and Mr. Sunshine shot out the door, promising to return with something for pain.

And I waited, and waited, and waited.

Pacing the floor, my husband opened the door, and across the hall, the nurse’s station was buzzing with important stuff, like drinking coffee and clowning around with their buddies! No wonder patients are put on hold for so long. But what do I know? I’m just a bag of bones with one foot in the grave, praying to be put out of my misery.

My husband is a patient, loving man, and would rather cut off his arm than confront anyone. But when he stormed out the door, I started praying.

I don’t know what he said, and I don’t care, but within seconds, a host of nurses sheepishly appeared.

Seconds later, an absent-minded X-ray technician rushed in, got me out of bed, then flew out the door and down the hall, leaving me limping behind like a three-legged dog. Suddenly, as if remembering to pick up his kids from school, he stopped, spun around, and gasped, “Oh! Do you need a wheelchair?”

And my brain screamed: Are you kidding me?! I needed a wheelchair when you broke my back, jerking me off the bed! No, I’m good. I always walk like this after being hit by a train!

Finally, with no help from him, I dragged my twisted body through the door, feeling as naked as a plucked chicken beneath the flimsy, paper-thin hospital gown.

Barely looking my way, he says, “Stand here, stand there, turn that way, turn this way, hold your breath, breathe. We’re done; you can go back to your room.”

How thoughtful of him.

No sooner than I crawled back on the bed, he rushed through the door again. “I’m so sorry! But I need a few more pictures, but you don’t have to get up. You can lie right there.”

There was nothing human about this elf-like, dark-haired guy. Like a drunk driver, he zigzagged his X-ray machine beside my bed, banging it, apologizing, and banging it again. I felt like I was auditioning for The Three Stooges!

“Lift your bottom,” he said, his voice hurried and apologetic. “I need to slide this board under you.”

Up until that moment, I was as brave as a lion. No tears, no moaning and groaning, no screaming and yelling; not even a whimper. But when he SHOVED that board under me, that’s when I died and went to Hell! That’s when demons ripped my flesh apart and began eating me alive. That’s when I yelled. When I bawled like a baby! When I screamed like a burning witch!

I actually felt a twinge of pity for the little guy. Despite his clumsiness, he was frantically trying not to hurt me. And insane with pain, I was frantically trying not to knock his teeth out!

Then, like a hit-and-run driver, everyone gathered their gear and left my mutilated body to slowly bleed to death. No warm, fuzzy blanket. No painkillers. No hope of getting out of this hospital alive.

Another hour crawled by before Mr. Sunshine finally returned with something for pain.

Dare I believe this charming, white-toothed devil? Dare I trust those baby blues? That mesmerizing smile? You decide. He handed me a wee, little, tiny pill in a wee, little, tiny cup and said, “Chew it up. It’ll work faster.”

What planet am I on?!!

From across the hall, moans for help were cut short with a flippant, “Take a deep breath!”

And I felt like screaming, “It doesn’t work!”

Suddenly, the technician ran back in and cheered, “No broken bones!”

Yay! I feel so much better now!

A few minutes later, Mr. Sunshine returned with a jackhammer and jammed it into my hip. To ease the pain, he said. It didn’t.

An hour later, I was discharged. Really? Just when I was beginning to like it here.

Feeling like I’d just spent a week in the Twilight Zone, I hobbled with my husband arm-in-arm down the long, dimly lit corridor. No wheelchair. No Painkillers. No warm, fuzzy blankets. It’s as if I came to the ER with a chopped-off arm, and they slapped a Band-Aid on it and sent me home.

But wait! Hell’s fury isn’t finished with me yet. No sooner than my husband helped me to a chair before leaving to get the car, an Amazon woman with a Freddy Krueger scowl told me to get up because someone else needed to sit there!

Seriously?! I’ve just been put through a meat grinder! Can’t you at least pretend to be a human for five seconds?!

Lessons I learned in the ER:
If you’re not having a heart attack, take the car.
If you’re in pain, suck it up.
If you’re in a hurry, stay home.
If you want special treatment, go to the spa.
If you want amusement, go to Disneyland; it’s cheaper!