Monday, September 26, 2005

A Suicidal Sink, a tale of surprise and intrigue

I thought that by relating the tales of my accident-prone nature (Egg Thrown at Face, Near Death by Coconut, On the Job Writing Injury, The Port-a-John Fracture), I might somehow purge myself of this accident-laden karma with which I have been blessed. Based on this past weekend, I was sorely mistaken in that assumption. Which is how I came to find myself in the emergency room until 5:30 Sunday morning. I digress. Let’s start at the beginning.
I spent my weekend visiting my dear old friend Cousineddie over in Virginia. We were having a grand time on the town when the Luck ‘O the Pig struck again. Having spent much of our evening at a local watering hole, we were up for some grub around 12:30am. An inviting Mexican eatery beckoned and our appetites responded. I decided to make a quick pit stop in el bano before dining. This casual decision? My fatal mistake. After taking care of business, my irrational fear of public restrooms prompted my obligatory hand washing. I reached out and turned on the water. All would have been fine and good had the SINK NOT FALLEN OFF THE WALL AND SHATTERED ON MY FOOT! Yeah, you read that right – the entire sink and all of its various plumbing accoutrements plummeted from its usual convenient location on the wall and exploded into a million pieces of porcelain atop my – brand new Kenneth Cole sandal clad – foot.

As you can well imagine, this is not a typical situation in which to find oneself. For a moment I stared dumbly at the pile of porcelain shards on the floor. Water sprayed at bizarre angles from the now-exposed pipes. I briefly lamented the time and effort I had painstakingly put into straightening my hair only for it to get unjustly soaked in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant. Then, THEN! I reacted. I screamed and ripped the door open to find the owner and a non-English speaking employee gaping just on the other side. They gasped in unison and the woman braved the Shard ‘n Spray to grab me a huge stack of paper towels which she emphatically thrust at me and gestured at my foot. I looked down.
My foot was standing in a small pool of blood which to my surprise and alarm appeared to be flowing from me! I sunk to the floor and began trying to stop the bleeding. Flashes of old health classes began flashing through my mind – pressure! No, a tourniquet! No, let it breathe! Confusion and panic were setting in as I realized this little snafu extended a bit beyond my cute hair and new sandals.
“Can you get my friends?” I begged the waitress. Cousineddie would know what to do. Always level-headed, that Cousineddie. The waitress raised her hands helplessly.
“No hablo ingles,” she explained, hastily cleaning up my bloodbath in a very non-HAZMAT manner. I summoned my high school Spanish.
“Mis amigos? A la mesa? En la restaurante?” I had been reduced to speaking in questions like my students. Her eyes lit up and she nodded and trotted off to find my friends. I closed my eyes and concentrated on applying pressure. There was some definite gushing here.
“What’d you do now?!” Cousineddie burst onto the scene and her eyes widened as she took it all in. I was ready for some sympathy, some assistance protecting my jeans, and a good doctor. Know what I got? Hysterics. She burst into uncontrolled laughter and supported herself on the wall (a risky idea in this joint) as she heaved in gales of laughter at my expense.
“How?!” she gasped. Honestly, if I knew that I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Suddenly, my nostrils were assaulted by a pungent stench. I momentarily released my vice grip on my wounds to shove away the hand of Armando, the owner of the restaurant who had procured some smelling salts. FLASH! A camera appeared in my face. This was really getting out of control. Cousineddie was now documenting my humiliating situation with photographic evidence between her bouts of hysterical laughter.

“Can I have a doctor?” I pled, trying to invoke some seriousness into this scenario. Yeah, this was quite the ridiculous situation, but I really had a bloody mess on my hands, er…foot. It turns out there are a lot of vessels? Veins? Arteries? In the big toe region. Bleeders, they are. Mine were on high alert and full productivity.
After turning down Armando’s offer of an ambulance, he and my new favorite person I had just met that night hefted me into the car. I’m afraid that may have been my one shot at a queenly departure wasted on a sink attack. We pulled away, me still applying pressure, Armando frantically punching my cell number into his phone, fear of a lawsuit dancing in his eyes. Are you wondering about Cousineddie? She was giggling over the pictures she had captured and was reviewing her work in the backseat.
Upon our arrival to the ER, I was wheeled away in a wheelchair (FLASH!)
and checked into be cleaned up (FLASH!). I believe it was at this point that a cop kindly asked Cousineddie to put away the camera. I was admitted around 1am and left on a gurney in the hall of the ER.
The rest of the stats from the night are as follows:

  • 5 hours

  • 3 nurses

  • 3 X-rays

  • 2 witnessings of naked gunshot victims

  • 1 witnessing of a possible gonorrhea infection, complete with penile swabbing

  • 1 nurse whisking me away for

  • 2 more x-rays

  • 9 requests by hospital personnel to hear what happened to me

  • 3 visits from a very giggly Cousineddie

  • 1 tetanus shot

  • 3 big needles in and between my toes

  • 4 stitches

  • 1 blue bootie

  • 2 crutches

So there you have it. Hopefully, hopefully, this will really be it for a while. *fingers crossed*
Be sure to stop by CousinEddie’s for her version after you leave me the appropriate pitying comment.

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