4 things I’m glad my parents wouldn’t let me do as a 12-year-old.
1. Get a Nintendo
2. Buy George Michael’s Faith album
3. Get a trampoline
4. Hang out at comic book store with that guy who chewed matches
Last night, I did my best to make sure that “softball* injury” moved up past (stupid old Robert K trying to jump into the pool from the) “trampoline injury” in the 2007 calculations for emergency room visits. The swelling had not gone down after 4 days of ice and bed rest and some people were getting concerned that this may be more than a sprain. My agent also kept reminding me that I’m in the last year of my contract and it’s not the time to goof around with something like this.
The typical emergency room procedure occured: wait an hour to be recognized as a patient, read New Yorker from 2005, get scolded by nurses for walking on a clearly bruised and swollen ankle, get sent back to waiting area in a wheelchair, get laughed at by wife, challenge her to Murderball, finally get seen by doctor two hours after arrival**, get X-rays.
Verdict: Not broken. And not really that painful. The doctor offered to prescribe something for the pain but I replied that the Skittles I was eating was medicine enough. She did not find it very funny. There were few smiles anywhere at that hospital.***
Final thoughts: The G said that if I didn’t stop goofing off in the wheelchair that she would ask the staff to strap me into some of the exam room machines so she could then pull the plug. I responded “fine” since the most advanced instrument was called a Vacutron and at worst I may suffer from a hickey. They also had a tube labeled “MEDICAL AIR” but the nurse was unable to adequately explain the difference between it and regular air. However, she did confirm that there was a giant tank of Medical Air somewhere in the building.
*I found out when we were leaving that the triage nurse inferred that the ankle was injured during a baseball game and it was too late to change. Softball now moves further behind trampoline.
**Just like on TV, The Fray’s “How to Save a Life” played repeatedly in every room
*** Growing up, my best friend’s parents knew Patch Adams. I played with his son, Atomic Zagnut Adams, on occasion. He goes by Zag.