Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Emergency Clinic Woes as I re-told the story

Emergency Clinic Woes

My first indication of a problem was when I bit into the sausage. Incredible pain shot through my every nerve, as if someone poked an ice pick about 6 inches into my gum. “Owwwwww!” I yelled.
Sheila took one look in my mouth and declared, “We’ve got to go to the dentist.”
“What is this We’ve got to go to the dentist stuff?” I asked her.
It is amazing to me that nurses and doctors are so free with comments about, “How are We doing today?” or “Well, We must be feeling better today.”
Et tu, Sheila?
After protesting, I prepared to go to a dental clinic, the only place available on Saturday in the small town in southern Pennsylvania. In 1966, we were on temporary assignment for the government.
I sized up the small clinic right away when we got into the waiting room and the receptionist was wiping grease from her hands. “Doctor Homer will be with you as soon as he washes up.”
Out the window, she yelled, “Homerrrr!”
I saw a man close the hood to an old Chevy pick-up and head toward the rear of the building. The receptionist said we could go on back. Dr. Homer looked in my mouth and said, “Ummmmm! (I hate when they do ummmmm!) It looks like we have an abscessed tooth here.” (There’s that We stuff again.)
One extraction later, we were on our way back to our temporary home, Sheila said, “How are we feeling?”
Mouth packed with gauze, I replied, “Nutt tu guuie! Huz wil beaa!”
“I’ve never heard of anyone pulling an abscessed tooth,” she said.
Immediately upon arriving home, I lay down. Hard, cold chills set in. Sheila called Dr. Homer to report what was going on. Nurse receptionist told her I should be taken to the emergency room.
Once again we were rolling, and I was feeling like I was about to expire. When we arrived at the ER, I was convinced they were related to Dr. Homer, the dentist/part-time mechanic. The ER doctor took off his grease-stained coveralls and put on a green hospital outfit, “What’s our problem?” he asked.
I knew what mine was, and it was getting progressively worse by the minute. “Uhhhggg!” I said.
“Ummmmm!” he said.
I closed my eyes and waited to die.
Poison had backed into my system from the extracted tooth. He gave me a shot of penicillin to combat the poison. I had taken penicillin many times before, including many shots, when as a child I had lockjaw. We left once more to return home, only to have more difficulties---a reaction from the shot broke me out in blisters, and breathing was difficult. Back to the ER! I received another shot to counteract the penicillin.
Finally three days later, I decided I might live.
In the end, I was convinced that Emergency rooms and weekend dental clinics are manned by off-duty mechanics.
“Next time,” I told Sheila, “take me to the nearest garage.”

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Still a very humorus story after all these years, but still a good one to re-read.

Keep'um coming bro.
yo bro crow