Hammer's Humor

ER: The Reality Show

            I have told you before that I watch a lot of TV. The show ER used to be one of my favorites. That was until the last time I had to spend an evening in a real Emergency Room, and I’ll tell you what: it would sure make for a boring show. I didn’t see a single gunshot victim, not one single patient with an axe in his head, and not one doctor or nurse who could be considered even remotely attractive.

            The waiting room crowd was another thing entirely. That would make a good show, something on the line of Jerry Springer. The hospital we patronized was not our first choice; we had to go where our insurance provider told us to go. Now, I would like to tell our insurance provider where to go, but I think I should wait until they pay the bills first. Actually, the way it really works is: step 1- they bill us, step 2- we call them and complain, step 3- repeat steps 1 and 2.

            Back to the ER: the waiting room could be called, “The International House of Patients.” The lady, who was moaning, groaning and peeing on the seat next to me, seemed to be from India, Pakistan, or Whateverstan. A gentleman of indeterminate race due to all the dirt and grime, was sitting across the aisle in a cloud of alcoholic haze and had obviously been in a bar fight. He kept staring at my teenage daughter in such a way; he just about got in a waiting room fight too. There were a couple of gay guys (and I don’t mean they were happy) speaking what sounded like German off to my right, and there was an Oriental couple from China, Japan, or Aurora, I’m not sure which. Speaking of TV shows, I know I shouldn’t name the hospital, but it was one of those Saint Something’s, and I sure wish it was Elsewhere.

            When you have a wife, a kid, and a cat,-all females I might add-you end up spending a lot of time in waiting rooms. Naturally, being a man, I’m there purely for support and chauffeuring duties. No self-respecting man would ever walk into a hospital or doctors office. The only way you will ever get me in one is: flat on my back, strapped to a gurney, with sirens wailing and lights flashing. Since this seems to be the case with most men, all we see of the medical profession is their waiting rooms, yet the only magazines they supply us with have titles like Glamour, Good Housekeeping, or Cosmopolitan. How about throwing in a copy of Playboy, or at least Maxim? I mean come on, their main subject matter concerns human anatomy, right? Speaking of Cosmopolitan; that is one magazine I can honestly say, I only look at the pictures and never read the articles.

            One reason I avoid doctor visits is they are never honest with me. I once wrote a poem titled, “Ode to the Prostate Exam,” which unfortunately, can’t be printed in a family magazine. The only lines I can share here concern the lies I’ve been told.

I LOVE IT WHEN THEY SAY TO ME
YOU MIGHT FEEL A LITTLE PAIN
LIKE NOAH WOULD SAY AFTER FORTY DAYS AND NIGHTS
WE'VE HAD A LITTLE RAIN.

            The Wife swears by her doctor. She will tell you he is an Osteopath and a Chiropractor, which translate to the male as, Witch Doctor and Nazi Torturer. I call him Doctor Pain. I had been complaining about serious neck and shoulder problems when the Wife talked me into seeing him. I know what you’re thinking, but I would never have agreed if I hadn’t been under such heavy sedation. He cracked things that have no business being cracked. My screams and yells were muffled by the sound proof torture chambers in his office. So, after getting a medical butt-kicking from this clown, he offers me a Tylenol. “How about a morphine drip, Doc?” was my response. The Wife is all proud because I no longer complain of neck or back pain. Actually, they both still hurt terribly but after that visit, you won’t get a complaint out of me.

            Now then, back to the ER. They have a metal detector at the entrance way. This should have been my first sign of trouble. Every person who walked through set off the sirens. The security guard had wisely turned the volume down low, so as not to disturb his nap. I guess if he wasn’t going to worry, neither should I. We waited hours to be seen; it should be more accurately called the, “Waiting, waiting, then wait a little longer,” room.

             They took x-rays of the Kid. We thought she had fractured her skull, and maybe had a concussion. The doctor said there were no broken bones, and I guess her acting stupid can be attributed to just being a teenager. My guess is, she did fracture her skull, but it had sufficient time to heal in the waiting room. I would have more confidence in the Doc if he were at least old enough to purchase alcohol. It’s hard to take advice from someone who, not only has never done half the things I have, but would be arrested for being underage if he did.

            So, the Kid is fine, the Wife is fine, and I am fine; not that I would admit otherwise, remember Dr. Pain? A few days later the Kid contracted Strep Throat. Just this week, I’ve been to the doctor’s office three times, the pharmacy twice, she has an orthodontist’s appointment tomorrow, and the Wife goes to the Dentist next week. I no longer watch TV. Who has the time?

                                                                                                               © Mike Ryan 2011