Slipping the Ice Fantastic
by Rhonda Peterson
December 14, 2000.
As I limped into the Emergency Room, I thought, Get me
a pencil and paper, stat! I feel a laugh attack coming on and due to this
obvious black-and-blue bruise, appearing like a bad Van Gogh painting, I'll
have to write it down or I'll forget the humor of this incident.
Earlier that afternoon, while stepping out of my car, I hit a
patch of ice and valiantly tried to save myself by attempting to perform a
triple axel like Tara Lapinski. My right leg did a perfect arabesque while my
left leg flipped out from under me and I was airborne. Of course, what goes up
eventually must come down, and my derriere landed against the car doorframe. It
wasn't a pretty sight, but I think I received an eight in artistic
interpretation from other parking lot patrons!
"Did you hurt yourself?" Asked the ER doctor who appeared
younger than Doogie Howser. I took a deep breath, not for the sake of his
lung-checking stethoscope, but because I knew I had to fill him in on my entire
medical history.
"Obviously! That's why I'm here. I'm sure you'd like
to start with my medical history and since I've memorized most of it, where
would you like me to begin?"
Question, answer, question, answer; the interrogation proceeded
under the bright lights of the examination room. After reciting a long oral
dissertation that seemed more like the opening arguments in the O.J. Simpson
hearings than that of the high and low points of my illustrious medical record,
I rested my case. I ended before the scribing physician needed wrist splints for
writer's cramp.
"One final question, Ms. Peterson. What medications are you
currently taking and are you allergic to anything?" I began to feel great
empathy for the documenting doctor.
"That's two questions. I have a list of my medications and
dosages in my purse and I seem to go into anaphylactic shock every time I
receive medical bills, but other than that I have no allergies."
"We'll get some x-rays to see if you broke anything," he
answered.
.
As I lay on a stretcher in the assigned cubicle, I reflected on
the events that led me to seek medical attention. The fall on the ice, the
immediate feeling that something was wrong after experiencing difficulty
walking, sitting, or standing, and finally the call to the "Nurse on Line"
at the emergency room.
Of course, as a former nurse, I should have known better than to
assume that hospital staff can diagnose over the telephone wire. Instead,
Florence Nightingale frightened me out of my wits by stating that bruises can
cause internal bleeding and may lead to another stroke. She had unwittingly
planted the seed of the most dreaded fear of all—the possibility of having
another stroke!
Trying to calm my apprehensions, I considered taking a warm bath
to soak my aching muscles. But I was afraid of being unable to get back out of
the tub. I envisioned having to call an ambulance from my trusty cordless phone
I always keep in the bathroom for such emergencies. Of course the paramedics
would have to break down my locked front door as I live alone and always lock
the front door when I take a bath. Regional news headlines flashed before my
eyes. "On a medical note, this afternoon the fire department and rescue squad
were called to the residence of Rhonda Peterson. They found the naked woman in
the bathtub complaining of an injured ego and sore bum. Duluth Hoist and Derrick
was summoned to assist her out of the tub."
I'd forgo the bath and consider driving to the Emergency Room
myself. However, the idea of sitting in the car while driving did not appeal to
my painful backside and the hospital had dispensed with ER valet parking due to
medical cutbacks. I'd have to drive, park, and walk ... no, this would never do.
Get your medical cards and cash ready; you're going for a
cab ride.
Cab's here. Now, how do I get in it? I'll lay prone across
the backseat.
After riding over every pothole in the city of Duluth,
without adequate shock absorbers, we arrived at the hospital.
"I don't need a wheelchair," I commented to the attendant.
"Although, I could use the Jaws of Life to pry me out of this cab!"
Stationed at the entrance of the Emergency Room was the
admitting clerk, dutifully positioned behind her computer. "Name, birth date,
and insurance, please," she asked.
"Here's my cards. Give them right back to me. They're
manna in this place," I answered.
Within minutes, I met the Doberman Pinscher guard dog of the ER
-
the triage nurse. She's the one who decides whether a patient goes to the
24-hour clinic or does not pass "Go", pays more than $200, and goes directly to
the Emergency Room.
"What seems to be the problem?" she asked.
"I slipped on some ice and fell," I answered.
"Let’s take your temperature."
"But I don’t have a fever, I'm in ... " I responded as she
stuck a sheath-covered piece of metal under my tongue and waited for the beep.
"Perfectly normal. Now, sit over here and we'll take your
blood pressure."
"I can't sit. You don't understand! I slipped on the ice
and fell on my ... "
"Well, I can't take your blood pressure while your standing!"
"You can't? I have complete confidence in your abilities as
a professional and I believe you can!" I quipped.
"Why are you walking so funny?" asked the talented triage
nurse.
"I don't think this is one bit funny. Read my lips, 'I-fell-down-hurt-myself.'
"
"We have to get your vital signs," she commanded.
An avalanche of various inappropriate 'vital signs' tumbled
through my brain, but I took the path of least resistance and decided on
decorum. Knowing my blood pressure was rising from this conversation, I simply
said, "I am not sick. I hurt!"
"Get a gurney and take her into the ER," she finally
conceded to her assistants.
I'm ever so obliged. I owe you one, Nurse Ratchet.
Her entourage plopped me onto a gurney and a Candy Striper
wheeled me through the double doors into the hospital's nerve center—the ER.
Immediately, I noticed that it was nothing like the television
series of the same name. There were no crowds of medical staff or gurneys
bursting through the door with cute Dr. Green performing CPR astride a patient's
chest. Instead, silence entombed the place like a mausoleum.
Sabrina the Teenage Hospital Volunteer pushed my cart against
the wall of the arena-like room and said, "Someone will be with you soon,"
pivoted, and sauntered out the door as the word "soon, sooon, soooon,"
echoed off the antiseptic-white tiled walls. I felt as if I had just entered the
Twilight Zone!
Within the white sterile environment, I became as adept as an
owl searching for prey. My head swiveled and my eyes bulged in an attempt to
locate other life forms. But all I could smell was isopropyl alcohol and
cleaning fumes.
"Oh, there you are!" I commented as a nurse eventually
approached.
"Could I have your name, birth date, and insurance information
please?" she queried.
"They already have that information."
"Who does?" she asked.
"The other nurses!"
"What other nurses? Are you saying you don't have your
insurance information?"
"They've got it! I told them to give it back to me but they
didn't ..."
"Calm down, lady! We'll get this figured out." As she
walked away I heard her whisper to another nurse, "I think she's the one
scheduled for the psychological work-up."
"Ms. Peterson! You forgot your hospital band," a cheery voice
exclaimed.
"Yes, tag me quickly! And give me back my insurance cards! I'm
feeling much better. I think I'll just be moseying along ... "
"You're scheduled for x-rays. I'll take you down to the
department. The doctor will see you after he reads them. Now, what was it that
brought you here? I need to take your vitals," and she stuck another
thermometer in my mouth.
.
Finally, the curtain parted and the mighty and powerful wizard
of the ER—the doctor—returned. "Nothing is broken but you have a nasty
bruise. It's going to take about a week or so before you feel comfortable. You
might want to put ice on it."
"Am I correct in assuming that this particular injury would
have been best treated if I had stayed seated on the ice?"
"I suppose you're right," he laughed. "But I'm not
telling you to sit on an ice rink in sub-zero temperatures! Put an ice bag on it
for a few minutes at a time. You could have broken a hip so I'm glad you had it checked.
Let me get the nurse. She has to take your vitals, fill out your
chart, and get your insurance information."
.
Moral: Be careful outside during winter weather, but if you
do have an accident make sure to get immediate medical treatment. Keep all
medical information and insurance information handy (triplicate copies wouldn't
be a bad idea!)
This work was previously published at
www.strokenetwork.org
for The Stroke Network Internet newsletter in December 2000, and in the January 2001
edition of The Ramblings, a national newsletter of Peterson Press.
Copyright © Rhonda Peterson 2003
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