Being a pedestrian hit by a car means multiple injuries and critical condition, but it’s not all doom and gloom. Well, okay, 99.9% of it is, but there are a few bright humorous moments.
I know I’m lying on the ground in the middle of the road. “Where are my kids? Where are my kids?” I open my eyes and see my son bending over me.
“It’s okay, Mom. We’re right here.”
“Where’s my purse? Where’s my purse.”
I can’t see my daughter, but I hear her say, “It’s okay, Mom. I have it right here.”
So, you see, I have my priorities in the right order.
In the emergency room, I say, “I wear contacts.”
A nice young intern hovers over me. “It’s okay, we took them out.” He holds a contact lens case a couple of inches from my eyes. “See, I have them right here.” Maybe he’s not so nice after all. Or, maybe I’ve been babbling a little too much?
Weeks later I’m transferred from the trauma unit to the rehabilitation hospital. I lie in bed with casts from the top of my legs to the tips of my toes. My right arm has been so badly dislocated that it’s useless.
A nurse comes in to tell me I’ll be going to physio and occupational therapy. Physio first. I’m taken to a room that looks like something out of the Spanish inquisition. Weird contraptions on the walls, with belts and straps and hooks that menace the helpless patient.
“Mrs. Jones, what are you doing here?” says a bright young thing I recognize as a former junior high student.
“Sandra, what are you doing here?”
“I’m your physiotherapist.”
I look again at the instruments of torture. “Oh, God, I hoped you liked me.” Turns out we get along just fine.
One evening the tall skinny nurse’s aide who is my favorite staff member offers to give me a shower.
“How can we do that?” I ask gesturing to my casts. Not a problem for her. She wraps both my legs in green garbage bags, wheels me on a gurney to the shower room, proceeds with a shampoo, and sprays the top half of my body. Never has a shower felt so good…
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