A moment of clarity
The evening after Haven Hamilton spoke, I was home soaking the interesting condition in the bathtub when I looked down and noticed the unwelcome guest had spread beyond the back of the leg toward the Netherlands of the undercarriage. Hmm. Not good.
God bless my primary-care physician, he called me back. After a quick consultation, he decided the best course of action was to get to the emergency room at the Mass General. Although I live closer to the South Shore Hospital, I decided to drive the extra miles to Boston. South Shore Hospital has had some imperfect patient outcomes, and has earned a reputation for killing people.
The waiting room at Mass General was filled with the sorts of patients you would expect to find in a major metropolitan area; fugitives from justice, a carpenter who severed his fingers on "the last cut of the day" after he had enjoyed the cold, crisp, clean taste of several of his favorite beers, as well as some psych patients who were having difficulties.
As Dr. Phil blared from the television about marriages gone bad, I thought seriously about what is and is not important. With all due respect to silk ties and 12-cylinder sports cars, having your health is a fine feeling indeed.
A few hours later, I was welcomed into the next wing where care was dispensed. Dr. Andrew, the attending physician, informed me he had no rooms available. At that point, I was ready to drop my gear in the hallway, in the broom closet, on the sidewalk under a street light, whatever.
While Dr. Andrew appreciated the offer, he made one more attempt at a room search and found me a place that had a lethal-looking vinyl covered stretcher.
The doctor's survey of the damage concluded the infection had spread, and needed to be cleaned out. He gathered up a cookie-tray of tools and donned a protective, plexi-glass face mask that was there not out of luxury, but necessity.
He went about his grim task with professionalism and enthusiasm. There are more details, but as this is a family blog, I shall omit them out of respect for the young and the squeamish.
An IV of Unison took an hour to drip into me, then it was time to drive home, whilst sitting somewhat side saddle, one hurting cowboy, just ten days removed from the start of the Tour de France.
God bless my primary-care physician, he called me back. After a quick consultation, he decided the best course of action was to get to the emergency room at the Mass General. Although I live closer to the South Shore Hospital, I decided to drive the extra miles to Boston. South Shore Hospital has had some imperfect patient outcomes, and has earned a reputation for killing people.
The waiting room at Mass General was filled with the sorts of patients you would expect to find in a major metropolitan area; fugitives from justice, a carpenter who severed his fingers on "the last cut of the day" after he had enjoyed the cold, crisp, clean taste of several of his favorite beers, as well as some psych patients who were having difficulties.
As Dr. Phil blared from the television about marriages gone bad, I thought seriously about what is and is not important. With all due respect to silk ties and 12-cylinder sports cars, having your health is a fine feeling indeed.
A few hours later, I was welcomed into the next wing where care was dispensed. Dr. Andrew, the attending physician, informed me he had no rooms available. At that point, I was ready to drop my gear in the hallway, in the broom closet, on the sidewalk under a street light, whatever.
While Dr. Andrew appreciated the offer, he made one more attempt at a room search and found me a place that had a lethal-looking vinyl covered stretcher.
The doctor's survey of the damage concluded the infection had spread, and needed to be cleaned out. He gathered up a cookie-tray of tools and donned a protective, plexi-glass face mask that was there not out of luxury, but necessity.
He went about his grim task with professionalism and enthusiasm. There are more details, but as this is a family blog, I shall omit them out of respect for the young and the squeamish.
An IV of Unison took an hour to drip into me, then it was time to drive home, whilst sitting somewhat side saddle, one hurting cowboy, just ten days removed from the start of the Tour de France.
posted by joe berkeley at 3:54 AM
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