2 weeks Ago
I sat down Monday evening to write my weekly column. I was going to focus on the presidential debate of last week, but I was having trouble coming up with anything to add to the overall discourse: neither candidate answered questions, word salad, moderator’s biases, etc. In the end, I couldn’t get past, “In Springfield, they are eating their dogs.
” That seemed to summarize the debate more concisely than anything I could say, and I closed the laptop and told Gunner (my Husky) that I needed an idea for the week’s column. Gunner had nothing, and I decided to go to bed. Though, I soon became a believer in speaking things into existence.
I made a quick stop in the garage to put out the recyclables for the night. I replaced the now empty, small recycle tub to its normal position, just outside the door, and lifted up and banged my head against the open fuse box panel door. Blood quickly dripped down the side of my face, and I reached my hand to my head to check on the wound.
The blood-drenched hand gave me more than enough information. Training by my mother and wife led me to know that going inside and bleeding on the floor would be an egregiously mortal sin so I took off my shirt and pressed it against my throbbing head to curtail the blood flow. Not because of a fear of blood loss, but for fear of getting blood in the house.
I made my way to the kitchen sink, still pressing my shirt to my head and attempted to wash away the blood from my face and neck. The flow of blood slowed and I walked up the stairs to awaken Nicole. She had gone to bed half an hour earlier but was still awake and watching Chip and Joanna remodel another house (there must be a bunch of old, crappy homes in Waco).
Upon entering the bedroom, she quickly turned her attention to me and asked two questions in rapid fire: “What did you do?” and, “Did you get blood everywhere?” Little did she know that my training had kicked in, even in my weakened state. She took a look at the wound and declared a trip to the emergency room was a necessity. With an exhausted sigh she announced, “Now I’ve got to put a bra on.
” “So sorry to put you out as I bleed to death” was what I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Anytime we go somewhere early in the morning or late at night unexpectedly, this is her exact statement. Men don’t really have a go-to complaint about having to put some article of clothing on to exit the house.
Another difference between men and women, I guess. We entered the quiet emergency room and walked to the check-in desk. The lady asked me what had happened and trying to bring some brevity to the situation I responded, “My wife hit me and I’d like to file a complaint.
” Without batting an eye, she said, “What did you do to deserve it?” I’d have hoped for a little sympathy with a bloody shirt attached to my head as a makeshift bandage, but I was soon to find out that sympathy was in short supply. Soon, I was taken to an exam room, and the nurse brought paperwork to Nicole to fill out as he checked my vitals — shirt still being held to my head. I once again tried to blame my injury on my wife, and once again the response was unsympathetically, “I’d quit making her mad if I were you.
” Like Rodney Dangerfield, I don’t get no respect. Even in my pain, paid professional care givers ignore my accusations. Nicole and the nurse traded stories of children and owning electric cars and the weather, and whatever else they found interesting as I continued to bleed to death alone on the bed.
The doctor soon entered and examined the wound. I didn’t try the same spiel with her, and instead explained how it had happened. I’d learned that she wouldn’t care anyway.
She informed me that I’d need several staples as my wife callously took photos of me in a most depleted form. I had concerns about the idea of staples. As a teacher, I have used a stapler on many occasions over the years, and I’ve never had a stapler that didn’t jam or require multiple hits to get a staple to come out.
I hoped the hospital wasn’t buying their stapler from the same supplier that schools use. A tetanus shot and eight staples later I was home — with a story. In closing, if I do have the power to speak something into existence, I sure would like to win the lottery.
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