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Sunday, September 21, 2014

If I were a vampire...

If I were a vampire I would be healed by now. Their fast, magical healing MUST be reality because I found it on line! Right?

And how come medicine isn’t like Star Trek yet? Couldn’t the nice doc/nurse just run a tricorder over me, know what my damage is and then...dunno...remedy up my cracked bones with a bone knitting laser ?

Why haven’t the brain boys and girls at MIT sorted this out yet? Hmmm? It’s got to be coming soon. If Hebrew University’s science folk can come up with something like Geordie’s visor, well, how far off is that bone knitting laser? Rilly now.

In any case, there we (Jen and I) were in the ER yesterday. What? Why were you at the emergency room!? Eh, late blooming pains from Thursday’s trike roll. I had some sharp pain in/around the old rib cage and was a wee bit concerned.

Jen toted me in to MGH where I got to experience their brandy new ER. Now, I’ve spent time in the ER before. Mostly with extreme colds and whatnot which’d come up unexpectedly over a weekend. I expected heinously long waits.

The Amazing Bob and I’ve zoomed in a couple times for big heart attack fun. These episodes resembled something out of Hollywood with gorgeous, competent, calming nurses and docs flying around my TAB like superheroes. And they were all those things only way more beautiful — freaky is what it was. And amazing.

Since I wasn’t fountaining blood, having a heart attack-ack-ack-ack or screaming in pain I had to wait. I expected a long ass one.

My heel cooling stretch wasn't so awfully protracted. The intake deal was completed within a half hour of me walking through the doors. I was then put in the “Fast Track” queue. That’s what the sign said anyway.

I don't believe the sign's author looked up the word "fast" before using it. Or maybe “fast” has a diff def within the ER world. Being a stone people watcher and this being a big city hospital, there were loads of interesting folk to check out.

Like the unconditionally stunning babe who had to be ten, twelve months preggers, wearing a form fitting grey, knit sheath and the cutest furry boots. I was all set to go ask her how she could possibly have such an astounding figure when she’s, clearly, moments from dropping the sprog. Jen stopped me. Something about that being, mebbe, not so appropriate.


Me and my post trauma snort 'o' Jamie.
Then there was the dude sitting two seats down who looked sick as twelve dogs after a garbage eating contest but still had it in him to check out the shapely butts of every passing nurse. Clearly the man had a rock solid, nuclear winter resistant libido

Eventually, before I could make new friends or offend anyone (could go either way — always a crap shoot with me), I was put into an exam room where med students and docs checked me out, all asking a zillion questions
"Do you have chills"

"I'm a 56 year old menopausal woman — if I’m not hot flashing, I’m rockin’ the freezer action!"
"Tell me when my touching/prodding hurts."

"I believe my scream will be a dead give away."
I had my 500th neuro check out of the week — I’m groovy on that count. Ducky even. I’ve been diagnosed with a chest wall contusion and /or broken rib. Why isn’t that last bit known for sure?

No X-rays. Why not? They would treat my damage the same no matter the results (unless I had a collapsed lung and I didn’t).

How? Ibuprofen.

Who knew? Cracked ribs are a "rest and take an over the counter med" sort of a deal. *sigh* Resting is not one of my more resplendent talents.

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