Thursday, September 07, 2006
Did I mention this was a bad week? If this were the Old Testament I'd suspect God's wrath. I do suspect the wrath of Our Lady of LaSalette may be at work here.
Yesterday, as soon as I got up, before I had water, coffee or a morsel of food, I slammed my foot into the bathroom door. I knew my little toe was broken because I heard it snap. When I've broken a toe in the past, I simply tape it to the toe next to it and march on. But this time my toe was, well, askew.
I couldn't just jump in the car and drive to the emergency room. I couldn't walk and Sister Mary Fiacre wasn't up yet, which is a whole long routine right there. Sister Saint Aloysius had to call on one of the church ladies to come and drive me and then Sister Saint Aloysius had to fend for herself and Sister Mary Fiacre on her own. Good luck to you both!
The emergency room was sort of busy. There was an old lady who had fallen at the bank and had a gash in her head and a really big fat lip. There was a Hispanic man who had let an electric saw slip...into his leg. There was an odd fat man with fantastically curly hair. His face was a little bashed up. And when I arrived a girl was coming in shaking in pain from kidney stones. By the time Mrs. Gott got me a wheel chair the kidney stone girl got in the door ahead of me.
I didn't realize she had gotten ahead of me, so I said to the admitting nurse, "Take her first, please, she's in terrible pain." And the nurse said, "She was ahead of you." It seemed she meant that had the kidney stones not been ahead of me she would have to have waited for me, shaking and moaning.
I left without my glasses so I couldn't read. Mrs. Gott was trying to keep my spirits up by talking to me so I couldn't mentally say a rosary. Which is a real shame, because I was there so long I could have freed Russia single handedly if it still needed freeing.
We got there at 9 am. We left with my foot in a Velcro shoe and on crutches at 4 pm!!!!
My toe was throbbing the entire time and I had shooting pains where the tiny bone broke.
So I told Mrs. Gott the story of St. Barthlomew. He had his skin peeled off. He was one of the Twelve Apostles and he is depicted in art with a big knife sometimes holding a big pelt or sometimes holding his own skin. The boys always really liked to have his holy card, which generally depicted his final moments. They always loved St. Sebastian, tied to a tree and shot full of arrows, too.
And I told her of St. Denis, who was beheaded in a not so nice part of town. He picked up his head and walked to a better part of town and died there.
At which point, the curly haired bashed face man said, "Never believe you're dead," to no one in particular.
We had quite a camaraderie going on hour after hour, as we were picked off one by one by the male nurse with the flag stamp hospital shirt. I found I was interested to see what happened to everyone, as though I was watching some television show and I wasn't going to get to see how it ended.
The kidney stone girl was given pain killers and was still trying to pass the stone. They gave her a sieve.
The Hispanic man had eight stitches.
The old lady, who I found out was fantastically wealthy and had willed her wealth to retired nuns (but not my order), had nine stitches.
I don't know what happened to the curly haired bashed face, or the gunshot wound to the head that came in later.
I do know the gunshot would was able to give a statement to the police, so like my toe, it couldn't have been that bad.
It's all about perspective.