More Hospitality

Wednesday, Jan. 8, 2003 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Continuing with our Xmas leitmotif, I spent last Thursday night in the hospital, and this time I got the role of the unimaginary invalid.* A mild concussion was the diagnosis. I fell off a ladder. At least, that's what they tell me. I don't remember a thing from that day, except a dream in which I had a fierce argument with someone who wanted to shave my head and pump me full of Dilantin. Except it wasn't a dream, Jer tells me. Jer was the one who picked me off the pavement and drove me to Emergency, which was rather stalwart of him, since he had never driven a truck in his life, but he did not quail at the task of piloting the big Ford 350 dually through LA traffic, with a babbling, bleeding idiot beside him. Although I'm just assuming he didn't quail, just as I'm assuming I babbled, since I don't remember a thing about that journey to the ER. But I know I sometimes babble in times of crisis. And I know I was bleeding because I've got four stitches in the back of my head, hidden by my disputed hair. I lost that argument, but they shaved only a little patch that is easily lost in my hair's native luxuriance. But I won the Dilantin debate. Dilantin is a physician's automatic response to epilepsy or suspected epilepsy. Since I have a couple of seizures in my medical history (caused, disparately, by meningitis and cocaine), the doc opined that it may have been a small seizure that toppled me off the ladder. I can't remember why I fell off, but I think it's more likely that I simply made a careless misstep while distracted, perhaps, by armfuls of fake pine garland and a plastic snowman. Jer and I were disassembling Christmas decorations on an aforementioned shopping center in Glendale. Jer didn't see how the accident happened. He turned to look when there arose such a clatter, to see 20 yards of floating garland settling to earth, and the ladder and the plastic snowman bouncing on me after they had bounced off a nearby car. As for me, I was flat on my back on the pavement, trying to fend off ladder, snowman, and garland, with only partial success. I have some nice scrapes and bruises on my arms to accessorize the gash on my head.

I am told that I did not lose consciousness (much later, I did fall asleep at the hospital, but I'm sure that was caused by boredom.) Yet I have no memory of the things I did after the accident. Jer sez I seemed to be in complete command of all my faculties, enough to speak sweetly to the lady whose car had been dented by the bouncing ladder and snowman. He said I was my usual charming self, and the lady drove off happily enough, clutching my business card, and the card of my insurance company. After she was gone, I apparently set off for the bathroom in the adjacent grocery store, to dab water on my boo-boos. Both Jer and I were unaware of my head injury; the blood had not yet seeped through my thick mane, and I guess the pain had not yet seeped into my thick brain. (Look, Mommy, I made a rhyme.) Jer sez I didn't complain of dizziness until later. When I didn't come back for like 20 minutes, Jer came to look for me, and found me wandering aimlessly through the produce. Or maybe I was standing befuddled at the meat counter, or staring blankly at the deli. Anyway, I was acting weird. Weird enough to scare Jer. And the blood running down my neck did nothing to reassure him. Neither did my wet shirt. Jer tells me that when he asked me why my shirt was all wet, I said it was wet because I had to clean the puke off it. That's when Jer decided to drive me to the hospital.

~

*Like anyone reads Moli�re nowadays. Huh. Sometimes I feel like a 28-year-old dinosaur, when I'm not feeling like a 28-year-old curmudgeon. (Yep, I'm twenty-eight now. Didja forget that me and Jesus have the same birthday?)

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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