I have had a love-hate relationship with doctors…and sometimes my interactions with those from the medical profession leave me in stitches…and that has happened literally more than once.
I will start with one of my favorite tales of medicinal woe, and trust me, there are many.
This time was when I was prepping for a Christmas dinner party for my co-workers at the non-profit where I worked at that time. It’s important to know that these were very Pre- Cell-Phone days.
We had just gotten a new puppy, and the dinner was already in the oven. For whatever reason, I left the garage door open, and out went Spike, running like a bat out of hell into the dark and freezing night. It's not really important to the story, but for another odd reason, I'd put on my newly acquired fur coat to look for him. I guess I wanted to look nice while screaming, "Come here, boy!" in case the neighbors looked out of their windows and saw me.
The puppy was wildly excited to be free, so I tracked his barking to an area behind the backyard, where a short wall built of cinder blocks lined up inside a stockade fence. It was built to keep water from a nearby creek flooding onto the grass on the rare times it overflowed. I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. In an effort to look over the top of the posts to locate him, I climbed up on the wall, lost my balance, and landed heavily on one knee on the cement bricks.
I guess the dog sensed that I was injured (or was cold and had enough of an adventure to go back inside where it was warm…he was certainly not an intelligent dog), and, thankfully, he ran up to me. I picked him up and went back into the house, noticing my one shoe squishing like it was filled with water as I walked. I was annoyed about this since it meant I’d have to change shoes.
When I got into the light of the house, I looked down at my foot and realized that what was squishing was blood. (I should mention that I apparently have a very high tolerance for pain.)
Pulling up my pant leg and surveying the damage, I saw that it appeared that the skin that covered my kneecap had been “lopped” off. Not to be gross, but you could actually see the bone.
The husband had just dropped off two of our three kids to hang out at a friend’s, and the third was at a sleepover, so I was alone in the house. I sat down on the steps leading to our living room and tried to “butterfly” close the cut with Strawberry Shortcake band-aids, which was all I had. When the husband came in, he took one look at my knee (which was literally gushing blood like someone had nicked an artery) and said, “You definitely need stitches! This is not something even you can fix.”
Since this was in the Pre-Cell-Phone days, they were also the Pre-Urgent-Care-Walk-in clinic days. This was the Saturday before Christmas, and it meant going to the ER, which was the only option for stitches that were available to me. Living in NJ, this also meant that every drunk who had fallen down, gotten into a fight, or worse, in a car accident, would also be at the ER. In retrospect, I don't think it mattered that we lived in NJ. This would undoubtedly be the same situation anywhere in the country the Saturday before Christmas. ..and probably Europe as well.
One of our very good friends was also an OB/GYN, and I was one of his patients. Thinking that I could shortcut the ER line, I called Dr. B, told him what happened, that I was on my way to the hospital, and could he make a courtesy call and maybe get me in without waiting for hours. I explained that my dinner was in the oven and guests were about to arrive. I could tell from the background noise that he was entertaining guests at his home, too, but he said he would be glad to do that.
After some discussion, the husband talked me into not trying to put on the dinner since even with getting into the “express” line at the hospital, it was likely I’d not make it on time to put food on the table for ten people. So, off I went, having scotch-taped a note on the door to my co-workers, explaining what happened and postponing the evening.
When we arrived at the hospital, we were surprised to see a doctor and two nurses waiting by the entrance with a wheelchair. As we pulled up for the husband to drop me off and go to park, they approached me, asking I was Dr. B’s patient. After confirming that I indeed was, they sat me down and wheeled me right into an examination room.
As they were beginning to take my vitals (still in my clothes, although I’d changed the bloody slacks to a clean pair and managed to find some gauze, which I'd taped with the aforementioned Strawberry Shortcake band-aids to staunch the flow), they started asking questions.
Doc: “How old are you?”
Me: "33."
Doctor: “How many live births have you had?”
Me: "Three."
Doctor: “When did you notice the blood?”
Me: "After I fell on top of the cement wall."
Then, the big one that stopped many of the ones that were about to be posed to me:
Doctor: “How many months are you pregnant?”
Me: “Oh! I’m not pregnant.”
He stopped writing, looking into my face, saying: “Aren’t you one of Dr. B’s patients?”
Me: “Yes. Oh! I’m just ‘plump,’ not pregnant. That may be why I look like I am pregnant.”
The medical personnel in the room changed their demeanor in a nanosecond. One nurse started to laugh; the other tried not to laugh, but the attending physician was not so amused. The two nurses helped me get the pants and the Strawberry Shortcake bandages off while the doctor mumbled to himself as he put together the tray with the sutures, etc., to fix me up.
As he stitched away, he gave me instructions on cleaning the wound and making an appointment to have the stitches removed with a physician who was not an OB/GYN since this was not the kind of sewing up that would be used in the course of delivering a baby. He also put my leg in a soft cast so that I wouldn’t bend the knee and pull the surgical thread out before it healed enough. I'm unsure how many stitches it took, but there were a lot. I swear he didn't numb my knee (payback is a "stitch," not a "bitch" in this case!), so it was uncomfortable closing the wound.
If you are wondering how much of a scar was left on my knee, it was a doozie. But that was just another war wound from just living my life. That knee had already had surgery to remove part of a fractured patella and another scar as evidence of my not paying attention to the fact that a French door was indeed closed before my leg made contact with its glass.
If you believe this seems to be an exaggerated story, I will share the husband's comment as we filled out papers for our first passports. When he came to the section where you were asked to list any identifying scars, he looked at me and said, "I think you'd better ask for another piece of paper."
I will start with one of my favorite tales of medicinal woe, and trust me, there are many.
This time was when I was prepping for a Christmas dinner party for my co-workers at the non-profit where I worked at that time. It’s important to know that these were very Pre- Cell-Phone days.
We had just gotten a new puppy, and the dinner was already in the oven. For whatever reason, I left the garage door open, and out went Spike, running like a bat out of hell into the dark and freezing night. It's not really important to the story, but for another odd reason, I'd put on my newly acquired fur coat to look for him. I guess I wanted to look nice while screaming, "Come here, boy!" in case the neighbors looked out of their windows and saw me.
The puppy was wildly excited to be free, so I tracked his barking to an area behind the backyard, where a short wall built of cinder blocks lined up inside a stockade fence. It was built to keep water from a nearby creek flooding onto the grass on the rare times it overflowed. I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. In an effort to look over the top of the posts to locate him, I climbed up on the wall, lost my balance, and landed heavily on one knee on the cement bricks.
I guess the dog sensed that I was injured (or was cold and had enough of an adventure to go back inside where it was warm…he was certainly not an intelligent dog), and, thankfully, he ran up to me. I picked him up and went back into the house, noticing my one shoe squishing like it was filled with water as I walked. I was annoyed about this since it meant I’d have to change shoes.
When I got into the light of the house, I looked down at my foot and realized that what was squishing was blood. (I should mention that I apparently have a very high tolerance for pain.)
Pulling up my pant leg and surveying the damage, I saw that it appeared that the skin that covered my kneecap had been “lopped” off. Not to be gross, but you could actually see the bone.
The husband had just dropped off two of our three kids to hang out at a friend’s, and the third was at a sleepover, so I was alone in the house. I sat down on the steps leading to our living room and tried to “butterfly” close the cut with Strawberry Shortcake band-aids, which was all I had. When the husband came in, he took one look at my knee (which was literally gushing blood like someone had nicked an artery) and said, “You definitely need stitches! This is not something even you can fix.”
Since this was in the Pre-Cell-Phone days, they were also the Pre-Urgent-Care-Walk-in clinic days. This was the Saturday before Christmas, and it meant going to the ER, which was the only option for stitches that were available to me. Living in NJ, this also meant that every drunk who had fallen down, gotten into a fight, or worse, in a car accident, would also be at the ER. In retrospect, I don't think it mattered that we lived in NJ. This would undoubtedly be the same situation anywhere in the country the Saturday before Christmas. ..and probably Europe as well.
One of our very good friends was also an OB/GYN, and I was one of his patients. Thinking that I could shortcut the ER line, I called Dr. B, told him what happened, that I was on my way to the hospital, and could he make a courtesy call and maybe get me in without waiting for hours. I explained that my dinner was in the oven and guests were about to arrive. I could tell from the background noise that he was entertaining guests at his home, too, but he said he would be glad to do that.
After some discussion, the husband talked me into not trying to put on the dinner since even with getting into the “express” line at the hospital, it was likely I’d not make it on time to put food on the table for ten people. So, off I went, having scotch-taped a note on the door to my co-workers, explaining what happened and postponing the evening.
When we arrived at the hospital, we were surprised to see a doctor and two nurses waiting by the entrance with a wheelchair. As we pulled up for the husband to drop me off and go to park, they approached me, asking I was Dr. B’s patient. After confirming that I indeed was, they sat me down and wheeled me right into an examination room.
As they were beginning to take my vitals (still in my clothes, although I’d changed the bloody slacks to a clean pair and managed to find some gauze, which I'd taped with the aforementioned Strawberry Shortcake band-aids to staunch the flow), they started asking questions.
Doc: “How old are you?”
Me: "33."
Doctor: “How many live births have you had?”
Me: "Three."
Doctor: “When did you notice the blood?”
Me: "After I fell on top of the cement wall."
Then, the big one that stopped many of the ones that were about to be posed to me:
Doctor: “How many months are you pregnant?”
Me: “Oh! I’m not pregnant.”
He stopped writing, looking into my face, saying: “Aren’t you one of Dr. B’s patients?”
Me: “Yes. Oh! I’m just ‘plump,’ not pregnant. That may be why I look like I am pregnant.”
The medical personnel in the room changed their demeanor in a nanosecond. One nurse started to laugh; the other tried not to laugh, but the attending physician was not so amused. The two nurses helped me get the pants and the Strawberry Shortcake bandages off while the doctor mumbled to himself as he put together the tray with the sutures, etc., to fix me up.
As he stitched away, he gave me instructions on cleaning the wound and making an appointment to have the stitches removed with a physician who was not an OB/GYN since this was not the kind of sewing up that would be used in the course of delivering a baby. He also put my leg in a soft cast so that I wouldn’t bend the knee and pull the surgical thread out before it healed enough. I'm unsure how many stitches it took, but there were a lot. I swear he didn't numb my knee (payback is a "stitch," not a "bitch" in this case!), so it was uncomfortable closing the wound.
If you are wondering how much of a scar was left on my knee, it was a doozie. But that was just another war wound from just living my life. That knee had already had surgery to remove part of a fractured patella and another scar as evidence of my not paying attention to the fact that a French door was indeed closed before my leg made contact with its glass.
If you believe this seems to be an exaggerated story, I will share the husband's comment as we filled out papers for our first passports. When he came to the section where you were asked to list any identifying scars, he looked at me and said, "I think you'd better ask for another piece of paper."