Well, a disaster happened to me about 2 weeks ago. It was pretty much the last sort of injury i wanted to suffer, given my (and our) situation.
The following is a repost from my blog about what happened:
This is a sad tale involving public transportation, copious amounts of blood, and hideous disfigurement.
Last Friday, I was on my way into the city after work, getting ready for a night of splendid fun. I was going in to meet up with Michael, Phil, Mike Treff, my dear Patricia, and to see Supersystem at the Knitting Factory.
My father had dropped me off at the train station. I was still in the car as the train pulled up, at which point I ran out of the car to jump in before the doors closed. Vaulting up the steps to the platform, I noticed the train doors starting to close and decided to accelerate to INJURY SPEED! I twisted my body to the side to slide through the narrowing gap and, in doing so, was forced upon my tippy toes.
Now, those of you who know me personally, know that I am a fairly tall young man. In fact, much to my chagrin, I found out the hard way that I am nearly as tall as the top of the entryway to Long Island Railroad trains.
The good news is that I made it into the train! The bad news is that I had hit the top of my head quite hard on the top of said entryway. So now I am safely in the train, except I am on my bottom, seeing stars, with gasping passengers around me. I had a knit hat on when I hit. I stumbled to my feet, fighting for conciousness, and gingerly made my way over to a seat to sit down and assess my body's status.
Once seated, I realized that my head was not only throbbing, but that there was also an odd burning sensation. Thinking that I probably had a mild concussion, I removed my hat and, to my unending glee, was startled by the sight of massive amounts of my own blood covering my forehead and hair. Yay! I had broken my f*****g head open! Awesome!
So I pressed my blood-soaked hat to the wound, wondering what in God's name I should do, considering I have no insurance and am relatively poverty-stricken. After a minute or so, two conductors came by to ask if I was ok, to which I said I didn't know and that I'd find them if I needed anything. So out of a mixture of shock and severe embarassment, I sat for about 15 minutes, putting as much pressure on my head as I could before I decided I'd better mosey on over to the bathroom to take a gander.
In the bathroom, I became quite alarmed at the geyser of blood that continued to spew forth from my noggin, but I still could not see the actual wound. When I walked out of the bathroom there was a woman there with her husband who noticed my condition. She told me that she was a nurse and I informed her of what had transpired. She took a look at it, parting the hair gingerly. I heard her emit a tiny gasp, follwed by "Oh dear, oh my, you're going to need some stitches, hun", to which I responded with an audible groan.
So I sat down and she went and got some conductors who called an ambulance for me at Jamaica Queens. There were some cops waiting for me as I got off. They listened to my story and proceeded to make fun of me, which was greatly appreciated, given my current mood and condition. The ambulance arrived and two EMTs triaged me, wrapping a giant civil war bandage around my head, and forced me into the ambulance.
So, there I was, in the back of the ambulance, lying on a stretcher with a funny and unnecessary oxygen mask on, talking to an EMT about how many girls there are in the clubs in the hamptons (like I know about that stuff). Upon arriving at the hospital, I get strapped into the aforementioned stretcher and wheeled through the hospital corridors. I feel it is noteworthy to mention that one of the EMTs was exactly like Fran Drecsher: giant hair and hideous queens accent included. When we neared the ER, I was transferred to a wheelchair. I wasn't too depressed at this point, probably because I still had a fair amount of adrenaline in me.
The real despair hit upon my delivery to the ER. My EMTs wheeled me to the center of the room and let go, allowing me to coast towards the corner, head hung low, staring at my lap. I gradually came to a rest, at which point i began uncontrollably sobbing. I began feeling overly dramatic. My evening was ruined. My weekend was ruined. As for my life being ruined, it was too early to call. Yes, this is how my mind works.
Looking around the Emergency room, I figured that it wouldn't be very long before I was treated, as I couldn't see anyone seeming to require immediate attention. Not so. I had to wait for about an hour and twenty minutes. I filled this lovely time with frantic pacing, bumming a Newport from a friendly thug, and calling various persons of importance until my phone ran out of charge and I was summarily disconnected from the world outside of the Jamaica Queens Hospital ER. As a warning, I would advise against smoking a Newport after receiving considerable head trauma; I nearly fainted on a bench outside.
When at last they did call my name, along with several others, I followed the middle aged female doctor down to one of the hospital rooms, was told I'd be seen first, and proceeded to climb onto a hospital bed as directed. My doctor unwrapped my heavily gauzed head, took one look, told me that since I'd take some time to fix she had to look at the other dudes who came down with me. For about 15 minutes I listened to a lovely gentleman whine about forgetting to take his Herpes medication, the unbearable state of his ding dong, sores, discharge, etc. Lovely to listen to. Not depressing in the least.
When at last the doctor came back, I was clutching her sleeve, obsessively asking her over and over if my head was going to be forever disfigured, If i'd have to buy a burlap sack for my head, whether I'd have to join a circus sideshow, and so forth. She was actually quite nice and sympathetic, assuring me that everything would be ok and that she'd seen worse scalp wounds. Then she dumped iodine on my head and I hissed at her. She might've well set my hair on fire. She notified me that I'd require 8 FRIGGING STITCHES, quite a substantial bit more than the 2-3 I was expecting.
After about a half an hour of immense pain, needles, blood, hissing, and whimpering, I emerged from the ER repaired and wearing my blood-caked hat (I was too embarassed to endure the stares). Not feeling like going back to LI, I hailed a cab and paid 35 bucks for a trip into manhattan. There was no way I was getting on another train. I'd probably defecate myself walking through the doorway.
Looking at the train doorways this morning, I realized that they are smooth save for a bunch of rivets all along the top about 2 inches apart. It was obviously one of these that had ripped me open. Down to the bone, I might add.
The moral of the story is don't be tall. The end.
