The Constant Wanderer

As I lay there on the sterile sheets covering the narrow hospital bed, an old man on my right moans in pain and mumbles nonsensical words to himself. "He's probably delirious," I thought to myself. It has been more than twenty years since my last emergency room visit, and fortunately this time around my dad didn't have rush me through the doors with a blood drenched cloth over my face.

Still waiting for the anesthesia to kick in, I look to my left and see a faint outline of a severely swollen foot through the privacy screen. The man and his wife are speaking in a foreign tongue, I can understand nothing but I sense that she is deeply concerned for his welfare ... how sweet. The female doctor walks to them with X-rays in hand, probably still trying to figure out what to say. They talk at length about the broken bone while I wonder how much longer before it is my turn. The bleeding has mostly stopped by now, but I am still holding onto a stained towel just in case the open wound starts spewing blood again.

The poor man on my left is still trying to figure out what the doctor is saying, "So this fracture is better than a broken bone?" he asks incredulously. The doc, slightly caught off guard, stutters a bit before she replies "No No ... uh ... I mean Yes ... fracture ... broken bone ... same thing, same same." I haven't heard the phrase "same same" used since my blue sky vacation in Thailand over a year ago. Why do people intentionally use poor grammar to communicate to those who have a hard enough time understanding normal English grammar?

A nurse walks towards me holding several bottles of antiseptic and various metallic instruments. I subconsciously flinch at the sight of the tiny needle, knowing that it'll be used to stitch me up. Vivid details of how the doctor jabbed a big needle into my hurting lip just minutes ago keep flashing in my head. Trying to distract myself, I look around and see that several nurses hovering around a computer screen. I squint a little to make out what they are looking at ... a red and white webpage design ... pictures of pillows and bed sheets ... IT'S OVERSTOCK.COM! I can't believe they are trying to buy stuff on the web when I'm bleeding to death just meters away.

Honestly I don't think the anestesia is working, but the tradeoff of telling the doctor just isn't worth it. Who in their right mind would want to get two more shots on their lip? Stitches can't possibly hurt that badly, can it? I read a study recently that claims that the anticipation of pain is often worse than the pain itself. It's hard to deny such a claim because everyone knows how your mind can really mess with you, especially one with such vivid imagination.

The doctor covers my eyes and most of my face with a blue cloth and proceeds to stitch my open lip together. My head jerks to the left as she pulls it through my lip over and over again. This must be what a fish feels like, being hooked on a string. Six stitches. That's how many it takes to mend the wound caused by a freak accident: a violent collision of a hard head and my soft lips during a basketball game.

Six Stitches ...