The scariest part about the pain shooting from my butt all the way down my leg was the long, bumpy ride to the hospital. Hubby wanted to drive me, but my pea brain thought I’d get quicker and better service if I went by ambulance.
Twenty long, agonizing minutes later, we arrived at the ER.
And there they were. My loving, compassionate angels of mercy waiting to cover me with warm, fuzzy blankets and whisk me away to a happy, sunshiny room and pump me full of painkillers. No waiting for my number to be called. No crying and begging and pleading for help.
And there’s my room. My sad, cold and lonely little room where I was wheeled on a bed of nails and left writhing in pain to freeze to death.
Where are my people? My angels of mercy? My warm blankets? My painkillers?
The only comfort in my cold and lonely prison cell was my husband’s reassuring voice, his warm hands and big soulful eyes.
Finally, like Mary Poppins, a nurse sweeps into my room asking questions, filling out forms, talking and laughing and convincing me he can magically make the pain disappear.
Then poof! He was gone! No I’ll be back in a minute to fluff your pillow, to hold your hand, or to bring a magic potion for your pain. Not even a kiss goodbye.
It’s my fault. Maybe I should have cried and moaned and groaned instead of laughing and cracking jokes. I even told him about the time I got sprayed by a baby skunk. I’m crazy that way. I try too hard comforting others and pretending I’m okay when I’m not okay. Don’t cry. Don’t moan and groan. Don’t let anyone know how much it hurts. They don’t care anyway.
So there I lay, writhing silently in pain wishing someone would just cut off my head and be done with it!
My husband tried to be patient and understanding with the ER doctors and nurses, but he couldn’t take it anymore, especially when they were all sitting at the nurse’s station having a grand time doing nothing. He’s a big man. A Navy man. He knows how to fight. He knows how to intimidate. He knows how to get the job done!
I don’t know what he did or said, and I don’t care, but within seconds it seemed that every nurse in the ER was in my room, their faces bearing the look of death. Moments later an absent-minded X-ray technician rushed in, hurriedly got me out of bed then flew out the door and down the hall, leaving me limping a mile behind. Suddenly, as if remembering to pick up his kids from school, he stops, spins around and says, “Oh! Do you need a wheelchair?”
And my sarcastic brain screamed: Are you kidding me? I needed a wheelchair when you broke my back jerking me off the bed! But that’s okay. I’m fine. I just came to the ER because I was bored and had nothing else to do. Keep going. I’ll catch up in a day or two!
As if torturing me with the first set of pictures wasn’t enough for him, like a man on fire, he rushed back in my room for more!
Only this time it was worse. Much worse! Wheeling his X-ray machine beside my bed, the technician told me to lift my rear end then he shoved a board under me. That’s when I died and went to Hell! That’s when ferocious demons ripped my flesh apart and began eating me alive. That’s when I cried. No! That’s when I bawled like a baby! When I squealed like a slaughtered pig! When I screamed like a burning witch!
I almost felt sorry for the technician as he hurried frantically to get the pictures he needed. He was a nice guy doing the best he could and trying to inflict as little pain as possible. And I was an angry, hurting old woman doing the best I could to keep from knocking his teeth out!
Then, like a hit-and-run driver, everyone gathered their gear and left my tortured, mangled body writhing on my prickly bed of thorns to slowly bleed to death.
Another hour crawled by before a nurse came back into my room. That Mary Poppins nurse. The one smiling as big as Texas the moment I arrived and crossed his heart and hoped to die that he’d make the pain disappear. So you can imagine my disappointment and disbelief when he gave me a lonely little pill in a little plastic cup, saying, “Chew it up! It’ll work faster!”
I chewed and swallowed the bitter potion and waited for the miracle to happen. It never did.
From another room I heard a man’s pitiful moans for help. All he got in return was an exasperated, “Take a deep breath!”
The X-ray technician returned and as if telling me I’d just won the lottery he cheered, “No broken bones!” Yay!
A few minutes later, Mary Poppins came back in and jammed a needle the size of a drainage pipe into my hip. It’ll ease the pain, he said.
Finally, feeling like I’d spent six months in Hell, I was released with more pain than when I arrived.
Down the hall, I limped arm in arm with my husband. No wheelchair. No help for the pain. No hope for the future. No promise that the sun will ever shine for me again.
But wait! Hell’s fury wasn’t finished with me yet. Moments after my husband helped me to a nearby chair before leaving to get the car, an Amazon woman wearing a Freddy Krueger scowl told me to get up because someone else needed to sit there!
Back home at last, even the strongest pain relievers the doctor could prescribe didn’t touch the pain. My stubborn, ruptured disc refused to be comforted. So I had to ride it out, crying and wondering if I would ever stop hurting. But I did. Three months later.
What I learned that day in the ER:
If you’re not having a heart attack or bleeding to death, 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!