Failing Upward

Chapter 2 (part 1): Man, meet Llama

I only held the card up to the white light of the windshield for an instant and of course that's when the llama walked in front the car. I never did find out whose llama it was, or where it went after I hit it doing about 48 mph. The beast ran off.

I wasn't as lucky.

Fuzzy llama karma--next thing I remember, I was taking baby steps in a yellowed hospital gown with my ass sticking out, being lead by a pretty student nurse and telling her "I really gotta piss" with absolutely no shame. Then suddenly I remember, I should be embarrassed. I stopped, reached around and clutched the draft together. I flashed-back to five years ago, snapping the shower curtain shut with my sister Harry's face screaming, "don't use all the hot water!"

I suddenly I didn't feel the urge to pee anymore. I asked how long I've been here, and the cute nurse scratched her nose and said, "Three days I think."

Three days gone. A blank. Nothing. I was suddenly cold. What was the air conditioning set at in this place? The IV leaking into my veins, helped chill me too. Each step shot pain up my leg into my groin. Every breath felt like a long sharp needle driven into my right lung. All this because I just had to read a little bit of the card.

"Sit down--" I moaned. "I need to sit." My confused, pained face told the student nurse she'd better get someone who knows more than her.

As I tried to find comfort on the rock hard hospital bed, my head worse, I filed away this experience for future medical reference: be empathetic to every patient's' situation.

I learned the rest of my story from the big night nurse named Bernice who the student nurse corralled to take care of me. Bernice was one of those people who made it their business to know everything about everybody. She knew about Lenny, the night watchman, who took home McCall's Magazines on the sly to his invalid mom. She knew about Jill, the dietitian, who ate off the patients' trays because she gave all her money to her alcoholic husband.

In her big deep voice, Bernice told me I've been talking like a drunk to a bartender ever since I got here, and how happy she was to fill my glass. I confided about my parents and my family, about their death. Apparently, I told her about my boyfriend .

I corrected her, saying, "Don't you mean my girlfriend ?" She winked at me. Not her, too.

She must have meant Sherlock. He did have a habit touching me a lot. And yeah, he was out and gay. And well, maybe he did have a bit of a thing for me. But he never would act on it. He valued my friendship as much, if not more, than I did. The man was good looking. He come get pretty much his pick of any man he wanted (or woman if he really wanted). He didn't because, most people were what he called "idiots." And while to most people he was a huge, standoffish prick, to me he was all touchy-feelly and friendly. The fact that he tolerated me more than anyone else and took me along on many of his "crime scene adventures" as a freelance reporter made most people think there was something more to us. It's just I like women. A lot. But I could see how Bernice might get the wrong impression. We were close friends.

I also decided I'm a bit scared of Bernice. She could possibly beat me up. Possibly--considering the way she just tossed me on my side to move my pillow like I was some twig. The woman could be dangerous if she wanted to be although I think she liked me enough to not snap me in half. She winked at me, then made a comment about "having lots of gay friends."

I said to her, "But I'm not gay."

She winked at me again and said, "Sure you aren't, hon. And that wasn't your boyfriend here visiting you either." I didn't bother to argue with her about this. I decided, better to ignore her. I asked her to tell me what happened the night of the accident, and she gladly told me.

Seemed directly after the accident, I knocked on a farmer's door, and he refused to let me in. Bernice said I gave a wonderful performance for Old MacDonald, who peeked through his moldy door curtains then pinched them shut. The farmer finally called the police, and the police called an ambulance. I guess I was beating on his door like a rabid maniac. Can't say as I blamed him for not letting me in. Most people don't come a knockin' with blood all over their shirt and jeans unless they're in some bad B film with a guy in a hockey mask close behind.

Bernice told me I kept saying to anyone who would listen something about a "damn prick." She gave me a lecture not judging those people less fortunate than us, and that the farmer couldn't help he was ignorant. You know, love thy neighbor even if he won't open the door. She must have thought I needed religion or something. I still couldn't get her to understand that I had a thorn prick my finger. Ironically, that thorn in my finger hurt more than my concussion and the punctured lung together. It was affecting my whole hand and spreading up my arm.

Bernice said I nagged her along with every nurse and half the orderlies on the floor for a mirror, too. At first they'd get me a mirror or take me to the bathroom to show me my reflection. Later, tired of my repeated requests, they ignored me. Still, I kept asking over and over, "Is my nose broken?"

I didn't feel the sharp pain in behind my eyes until then; I never knew a person could recall pain like they recall a memory. I'd have to file that one away for future reference when I'm a doctor too. I bet Sherlock would like to know that as well. I reached for my nose and a slicing pain shot through my skull. I asked her if it was broken. The nurse said no--"but you look like shit." I didn't know RNs on duty were allowed to cuss, but who was gonna stop her ?

"My head hurts. And my hand. And. Actually, my whole body hurts. Do you think I could get something more for the pain?" I asked her.

That's when I got lecture number two from Big Nurse Bernice on the evils of drugs. She assumed for some reason that I was under the dark influence of some illegal substance at the time of my accident. She said I came into the emergency room babbling about not only about some prick but also about a llama, Glenda the Good Witch and Rock Hudson , and that I was in "a highly agitated state." Shit, I felt agitated right then, but not because I was strung out.

I did remember the llama and Glenda. Vaguely. Not sure about Rock Hudson. But I did watch North by Northwest , but that was with Cary Grant not Rock. I always got those two mixed up.

Bernice went to get the doctor on call. He came in to check on me--his name was, get this, Dr. Doctor. I started to laugh. Was I in some old Marx Brother's film or a Saturday Night Live skit?

He read over my charts, wondering why I'm laughing. My imagination flashed to Groucho with a cigar saying, "Either this man is dead, or my watch has stopped."

Dr. Doctor told me I had been in shock, and it's possible from my reaction, I still was-- No shit, I think. Wonder why I'm laughing like an idiot? Flying twenty feet out the windshield into a row of trees might scramble your brain, too. I decided when I become a doctor, I'd have a lot better bedside manner than Dr. Doctor.

Then I asked what his first name was. He said, "Dat."

I laughed so hard and hurt so bad I threw up all over his feet.