After I drove myself home, which was basically a huge fricking mistake, I tried to tough it out by calling my general practitioner and making an appointment. The nice lady on the phone suggested I just go ahead and go to the ER, because 1) they could do something about the pain, and 2) they have an X-ray machine. (I'll come back to these two points later.)
|I totally didn't do this.|
Once I checked into the ER, riding in a wheelchair, the real fun began. I began my stint in the ER waiting room in a genial mood despite the fact that my calf felt like someone had reached inside my muscles and yanked several out, spit on them, tied knots in them, and then shoved them back in. I got my vitals taken fairly quickly and explained to the nurse that I did not feel good. I think they wrote "booboo on leg" on the form. I believe that was a mistake on my part. I should have insisted they write "horribly mangled, agonizing, ruptured muscles that have me writhing in pain" instead. I should have begged for morphine and/or vodka. I'm convinced that if I had done that I would have been seen faster. A corpse would have been seen faster.
|If a cartoon character had shown up in|
my ER, they would have been seen
|I was waiting for something all right.|
|This would be the title of HIM's blog.|
|I don't know why I stuck this in here. Probably because I thought|
it was funny. This is how I see myself while I was waiting
in the Emergency Room.
HIM had to leave (the lucky bastard) to go pick up the little girl at Girl Scout camp.
|My daughter thinks this is funny.|
Anyway, I waited some more.
This funness was followed up by Frechandra wanting me to take a pregnancy test. I informed Frechandra that not only was I 50 years old, but my tubes had gone buh-bye in a tubal ligation event back in 2004. She said unless I had a hysterectomy I had to pee in a little cup and make with the hormones/or no hormones to prove it. I got a box with the appropriate stuff in it and apparently medical science has improved because now women get a little funnel thing instead of having to aim for a 2 inch cup. (All the women reading this are sagely nodding their heads.) Who hasn't had to wipe off a cup? Hmm? Let's just say I can't hit the little cup any better than I can sink a basketball in a hoop.
I was informed I was not pregnant. I think my eyes rolled back into my head at that point in time and bounced off the back of my brain.
HIM returned with the little girl. The little girl cried because I was in the hospital. I said it was okay. I said that she could wait on me at home, serve me ice cream, and be my slave. She cried some more. Then I said she didn't have to wait on me. She stopped crying.
|If you have to have crutches, go big.|
So four and a half hours later, I hadn't been X-rayed, I hadn't gotten any bleeping thing for the pain, and I had wasted time and money at a place where the nurses look at you like you're a criminal. Also I discovered I wasn't really pregnant.
|Where was this when I needed an Ikea meme|
Anyway, it's a week later, and it's slowly improving. And people wonder why I hate doctors, hospitals, and medical personnel.