In Case Of Emergency, Don't Call Rose

Since having chemo, I have ended up in the emergency room a few times.  (Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.)

Naturally, my side effects occurred when Tim was not around, so I called Rose and asked her to take me to the hospital. (Bless her little heart, she would do anything to help someone.)  After all, she was a candy striper when she was younger.  All I can say is, "God help the people she was assigned to.  They are probably still trying to recover!"

The first hurdle was getting to the hospital without getting killed.

"Go straight through the stop sign," I directed as we came to an intersection.

And she did.  Straight through the stop sign.

"What?" Hearing my gasp, she glanced over at me, mistakenly thinking the reason I sounded like a beached whale was because my face had swollen up and I looked like a beached whale.  Somehow, she missed the fact that we had just narrowly escaped death due to her driving skills.

"You just blew through that stop sign," I sputtered.

"Well, you said to go straight through it," she protested.

"I meant go straight, after stopping!!!  I do not want my tombstone to read, 'She survived cancer, but not a car ride with Rose' "

Sadly, she was not done trying to kill me yet.

Upon arrival at the hospital, they gave me a mask to wear, and a gown to put on.  Yep, nothing makes you feel more like the expendable crew member in a sci-fi movie who gets some horribly disfiguring disease and dies an agonizing death during the opening credits while the star stands over you, looking like they just finished shooting a cover for Vogue  than having to sit in the ER covered head to toe in paper mache.  Woo-freakin'-hoo.

After drawing blood, taking my pressure and temperature for the fifty-sixth time and assuring me that whatever it was, it was probably not fatal, maybe, they left Rose and I alone in the room and went off to scratch their heads again. (Paging Dr. House...disease of the week in room 4)

Vainly, I tried to get comfortable on the hospital bed (which is like asking a hot dog to get comfortable on a nice, hot grill).  I triple-folded the plastic pillow and scooted up, then down.  I crossed and uncrossed my legs.  I used the side-rail as a prop, went into downward dog, attempted a warrior three and ended with a triple-toe loop, but nothing worked.

"Here, let me help you," Rose offered.  "I know how to put the back of the bed up.  It's just this lever here."

And faster than you can say, "Code Blue"  she pulled something under the bed and the next thing I knew,  I was getting up close and personal with my knees!

"Um, I think I prefer it the way it was," I panted, trying in vain to drag some air into my lungs without rupturing my spleen in the position I was in.

"Oops," Rose muttered, tinkering with the lever again, "Sorry.  I didn't mean to push the top that far forward."

Really?  So you were not trying to fold, spindle and mutilate me?

"There," she announced as the top half of the bed went flying 180 degrees back to its original position, taking me with it, "how's that?"

Gee, I'm not sure.  Let me get this case of whiplash taken care of and then I'll let you know.

"Okay, I've got it figured out now," she announced, pressing the lever of death once more before I fully regained consciousness.

This time, I ended sitting up straighter than a corpse at an Irish wake (sadly, this has actually happened in my family back in the day when some great-uncles and assorted cousins decided the deceased needed "one for the road", but that's another blog).

"Is that comfortable?" she inquired, reaching for the lever again.

"Not really, but I'm afraid if you go for a fourth attempt, I will end up in Ripley's Believe it or Not, or the Guiness Book of World Records, and I've kind of gotten used to having my limbs in all the usual places." I mumbled as I shooed her away from the bed.

Luckily, the hospital staff interrupted at this point, and there was no further experimentation with trying to turn me into a human pretzel.

So just this last week,when I ended up in the ER yet again with my foot, Rose tried to help me move my wheelchair away from a too-close-to-my-broken-foot-to-be-opened-safely-door.

"I know how to do this," she bragged.  "Remember, I worked at a hospital as a candy striper."

What I remember is barely surviving the last time you touched the hospital equipment.

"Put the chair-lock down, back away, and nobody gets hurt," I warned her.

Especially not me. Next time I need to go to the ER, I think I'll call a cab.