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“Nope. Not with a head injury,” he said.
And so, I had a cervical collar put around my neck (so uncomfortable) and was bundled into the stair chair, a device I’d used a hundred times but never had the pleasure of riding on, and was carried out of the room, down the hall, transported down the stairs in front of a hundred people as I clutched Hannah’s purple unicorn fleece around my hips.
“I’ll try to get there as soon as I can,” Hannah said over her shoulder. “I need to make sure Mom’s okay. Daddy, too. Did you see his face? I thought he might have a heart attack!”
“Stay here, Han. I’m fine. I’ll text you.”
The guys got me off the stair chair and onto a stretcher, complete with super plush backboard (I’m kidding, those things are murder).
“So you got tangled up in your pants?” Fumble said as they loaded me into the back of the ambulance.
“That’s what she said,” James quipped.
“I wouldn’t mind being tangled up in your pants,” said Fumble.
I glared from beneath the gauze they’d given me to replace the wash cloth. Jake could flirt. Fumble harassed.
“Do not make sexual innuendos to your coworkers, asshole,” said the lieutenant.
Fumble looked terrified. “I was just kidding! She knows that. Right, Sam? She’s not a snowflake, not like Denise.”
“Shut it, Fumble, before I suspend you.”
James and Legend loaded me into the back of the ambulance, and Diane, an EMT I knew through similar calls, put a blood pressure cuff on me.
“Text me so I know how you’re doing, Burger,” Jake said, and I gave him a wave.
The doors slammed shut.
“Tangled in your pants?” said Diane. “That must’ve taken some work.”
“I’m terrible pain right now and don’t want to talk,” I said with a little smile. My head did hurt, and it would hurt more in the morning.
“Same thing happened to my four-year old. But then again, he’s four. BP’s 124/55, pulse a little high at 102.” She looked under the gauze Jake had used. “Ouch. I’m guessing five stitches. Maybe six. If you’re nervous, ask them for some Xanax. Just have someone drive you home.”
It was 10:49, and my cut was really throbbing. My whole head ached. My shoulder, too, from where I’d hit the floor. I’d definitely need some ibuprofen later. Too bad I was working tomorrow, but I was covering for Titus, who had little kids.
“What have we here?” asked Bruce, who worked in patient transport. He was waiting in the ambulance bay.
“Just trying to change things up a little this holiday season,” I said.
“Looks like you did a good job,” he said. “Let me whisk you away, my lady.”
To be fair, it was kind of fun to be wheeled from the ambulance, up the elevator and handed off to the ER. I thought about waving, queen-like, and opted not to. I knew too many people, and a few nurses jerked their chins or said hello.
"Someone will be in to see you in a minute," said Bruce. “Feel better.”
“Thanks,” I said. The door closed, and I was alone.
Alone in the ER on December 23rd, all thanks to an unfortunate wardrobe choice to impress my unimpressible girlfriend. With a fair bit of pettiness, I texted Judith. The least she could do was feel guilty.
Hey. Had a fall at the party and need stitches. In the ER now. Pretty bad cut, lots of blood.
The phone whooshed as I hit send.
It was immediately marked delivered. Then read. Any second now, I’d be getting those three dots and some pithy Britishism about stiff upper lips or the like. Maybe she’d come dashing down to the hospital here, her true feelings of deep love brought to the surface by my injury. It could happen.
I waited. Waited some more. Maybe she’d turned the phone volume down really low, though usually when she worked, she put it on Do Not Disturb.
