October 25, 2013 § 45 Comments
I’m a wuss. When I tried to get out of bed this morning, and couldn’t, I immediately assumed that my anterior cruciate coliform had fractured in the Big Tuesday Crash. “Honey,” I said. “I gotta go to the hospital.”
Mrs. WM doesn’t like being awakened at 4:30 AM. “You onna what?”
“The hospital. I think I broke my coliform nexus prospangerineum.”
“I ain’t onna goin to no hospital.”
“No, honey, I can’t get out of bed. It really hurts.”
“How come you onna gettin out of four o’clock bed? Itsa sleepy time onna three more hours.”
“But I have to get up and pee and I can’t get up.”
Now she was alert. Mrs. WM always gets alert when it comes to bed wetting. “You ain’t onna bed pissing again?”
“No, but I need help to the toilet.”
“If you onna bed pissing, you changing the sheets. I ain’t onna touchin your hot bedsheet pisswater.”
“Please … ”
She relented, and helped me up. As soon as I sat on the toilet, I had to number two. But the pain in my side was so acute that as soon as the log rolled down through the logjam and started peeking at the door, a tremendous stabbing pain shot up my side, so bad that it took my breath away and forced the log back up the chute.
“Why you onna gaspin?” she asked.
“Oh my dog,” I moaned. “I gotta crap but can’t.”
She stuck her head in the door. “It sure stinkin like you can.” She held her nose.
“I almost can, but then I can’t.”
“Well, I ain’t onna holdin that for you. Grabbin on the little chin-chin to pissin in the bottle I can do, but I ain’t onna helpin you poopers.”
The spasm came again. “Gimme that garbage can,” I said. She handed it to me, and I flipped it upside down, putting my right foot on the can and thereby raising my right knee high above my pelvis.
“How come you doin onna pilates?”
“It’s not pilates. I’m trying to find the right position.”
“Now you know how a girl feels onna lovemakin. Gotta get the leg up and the middle parts down low. Better onna action traction.”
Deep in the throes of Jakeleg Facing Dog Grunting Stool, I completed the mission, dressed, and headed off to Torrance Memorial.
Marcus Welby, M.D.
I limped into the admitting area of the E.R. “What’s your issue, sir?” the woman asked.
“He ain’t got onna no issue. He just don’ wanna go onna office. He was drinkypants last night like nobody’s business.”
“I fell down,” I said.
“From where?” the lady asked.
“My bike.” The pain was so bad I could barely stand, but they clearly thought I was flopping, especially after Mrs. WM had alerted them to last night’s drinkypantism.
In triage they examined me carefully. “Where does it hurt?”
Mrs. WM, who had sneaked in with me, piped up. “It’s hurtin’ onna place he can’t be drinkypants. He drinkin onna beer last night he wasn’t complainin. But he gotta go onna office all of a sudden he can’t walk or poopers.”
“How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?” the nurse asked.
“Thirty,” I said.
“Let me go get the doctor.”
As we sat in the room we listened to the people outside pleading their case to the doc. “I just need the prescription refilled, Dr. Smorgasbord.”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t see the need at this point. You stubbed your toe four weeks ago, and we’ve refilled your Percocet-Vicodin 12,000 mg prescription seven times.”
“But I’m in such pain, doc. You can’t imagine.”
Next it was our turn. “Well, Mr. Davidson, the x-rays came back negative. No fractures at all. I suppose you’ll be wanting some pain meds?”
“No,” I said.
She looked at me funny. “We were going to give you an injection. For the pain.”
“I don’t want one.”
“You said you were in enough pain that you couldn’t get out of bed.”
Mrs. WM chimed in. “He’s just onna complainin. He ain’t hurtin. Just puttin’ a leg onna trashcan and poopin like a drinkypants with too many chili burritos.”
The doc turned to me. “Your hip and back show significant bruising. How fast were going when you fell down?”
“You should really take the injection.”
“Just one question, doc.”
“After the injection, can I ride my bike?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, that settles it.”
And it did.