So my recent accident got me to thinking about my previous one. That one at least had a warning, even if I didn't heed it. I guess I should have been more worried when my insurance company referred to my brand new cherry red 2 door Dodge Neon as a "disposable". But I was a fool in love (I called it "My Baby"), and nothing and no one was going to put me off my beloved. No one except the pine tree I ran it into.
I'll spare you the details, except to say I survived (obviously). Truth is, some of it is fuzzy, which is how I prefer it anyway.
Some people came to my aid immediately afterwards (including 2 army medics I never got the chance to thank); a Mountie, and some ambulance guy who chatted me up on my worst hair day EVER. I suppose he realized that I was young, single, vulnerable and flat on my back at his feet - literally. Anyway, they took me to the hospital and parked me in a room with really bright white ceiling tiles that I counted repeatedly (if you want to know go to the Baddeck Hospital and count them yourself) before I got any service. I told the hovering face that I had to pee, then I dozed off for a bit. Counting ceiling ties is as good as counting sheep, as it turns out.
The bit that I can remember clearly, that is not fuzzy at all, started when I woke up to see, at long last, a nurse..... with a catheter. The ensuing conversation went a lot like this:
"What the HELL do you think you're doing with THAT?"
"It's standard procedure."
"Listen, just help me to the bathroom, okay?"
"You're strapped to a BACKBOARD!"
"Then untie me."
"You're not getting up before you get x-rays."
"Look, I'm FINE. I can wiggle my toes." I wiggled furiously, but since all I could see were ceiling ties and part of her face (the top half of her head since she was down between my feet), I couldn't actually tell if they were moving or not.
"You could have internal trauma!"
"Just give me a bedpan then."
We repeated this for a few minutes until she heaved a sigh and came over to stand where I could see her.
"A catheter would be so much easier. It won't hurt at all, promise."
I'm not sure what kind of withering look I gave her (I suspect it's similar to the one my mother uses on me), but I got the bedpan.
After that I got shipped to Sydney, got patched up, and argued (surprise surprise) once again with medical personnel until they let me go home. My father, who set several landspeed records bombing down the Cape Breton highway in a crapola car that was held together only by its dirt, chauffeured me and my mother back to Halifax. We had to stop in Antigonish for a drugstore though, where I got some primo drugs. That was because I was black and blue from shoulder to hip (seatbelt restraint), was sporting a fresh black eye, and 2 layers of stitches (34 total) in the left arm. I looked like a Bride of Frankenstein, sans her fashionable coiffure.
True, I had lost My (Disposable) Baby, but what really frosted my ass for a good week afterwards was the $50 I had just paid for a full tank of gas minutes before I drove it off a stupid cliff. So now I don't fill up in Whycocomagh anymore... just in case.