As I always knew would one day happen, Taylor’s renegade
ways have gotten him into trouble.
Since we first met, Taylor has called me a conformist
because I’m all about the rules. I never enter a situation without making myself
fully aware of any associated laws or social customs, and deviation from those
things just isn't an option in my world. I apply equal stringency to the rules of
the road. I am that person in front of you who immediately brakes upon sighting
a yellow traffic light, causing you to wave your fist in anger for not allowing
you to blow on through before it hits red. I am that person who goes 47 in a 45
only if I’m feeling frisky – a rare occasion indeed.
Then there’s Taylor. Taylor makes a point of initiating
contact between his car and any unfortunate traffic cone he should find out on
the roadways, veering across lanes with a grin on his face while I screech out
a safety lecture from the passenger seat. He often issues the following warning
beforehand: “Watch out babe, it’s about to get western up in here”.
Traffic cameras have a ball with his antics, sending us neat
letters in the mail with pictures of Taylor gleefully gliding through the first
few seconds of a red light. This also elicits screechy lectures from yours
truly.
Up until this point, Taylor has simply waved off these
lectures as nonsense from a card-carrying member of the “fun police”. But as they say, it’s all fun and games until
someone gets hurt, and Taylor has indeed been hurt.
While on his way to work a few weeks ago he decided that the
extensive line of traffic just wasn’t for him and figured he’d save a little
time by passing everyone on the shoulder, a feat he could easily manage on the
motorcycle. However, as I could have informed him in any number of my traffic
law lectures, this maneuver is quite illegal – and for good reason. Turns out
that if you’re riding up the shoulder of the road, obscured by two lanes of
stalled traffic, the opposing traffic cannot see and does not expect you to
come flying up the road. This is particularly problematic in the case of
vehicles attempting to make a left through the waiting cars, which is precisely
what was going on approximately 50 feet in front of Taylor. To make a long
story short: Taylor flies up road shoulder, car turns left given that the two
legal lanes of traffic are not forthcoming, car smacks into Taylor, chaos
ensues.
Note that I left the house at the same time as Taylor that
morning and watched as he made the decision to pass those cars. I did my normal
“tsk-ing” and then returned my attention to some good NPR Trump bashing.
Approximately 1 minute later, as the line of traffic began to move, the most
terrifying moment of my life thus far occurred. I registered that there was a
wreck in my periphery. I spared only a quick glance, avoiding that shameful
rubber necking. In that glance however, I registered an awfully familiar
motorcycle lying on the road. I froze as an internal battle raged for what felt
like hours in which one side was screaming that the bike belonged to Taylor and
the other side screamed back that this was an impossibility because this kind
of tragedy could not be a thing. Fortunately, before the full impact of
possibilities could hit me, my attention was hijacked by an arm waving from the
ground. This arm belonged to Taylor, who was amazingly intact and waving me
over to him.
According to a traumatized witness: Following an acrobatic
flip over the front of his bike (which he has demanded video of from the street
cam, and which the cop has promised to send), Taylor apparently crawled to the
side of the road and proceeded to throw his helmet in a fit of fury. He was
certain his leg was broken and he was piiiiissed.
Though (amazingly) not broken, his leg was in pretty bad
shape. His foot required several stitches and along with the leg is temporarily
unable to carry out its typical support duties. This means many hours on the
couch and several runs of Back to the Future, only the former of which elicits
complaints from Taylor and only the latter of which elicits complaints from
myself.
This also means extended periods of time dealing with the
medical community, a place that appears to be more irritated with Taylor’s
accident than he is. Following the initial ER visit we returned out of concern
for Taylor’s rapidly swelling appendage. When we reached the point where his
toes no longer looked like they had room to expand, I felt it would be prudent
to get that checked out. Patrick, the very nice man who got us through that
particular visit, asked that we please return in 3 days to make sure all was
well. We did so and following a 4.5 hour visit during which Taylor was subjected to
everything from 50 blood draws to an ultrasound, we were sent away with a new
ACE bandage and what I’m sure is an impressive tab. In that time we spent
approximately 5 minutes with a doctor who poked at the newly red and inflamed
portion of Taylor’s leg and said, “uh, I don’t think it’s infected…but I guess
I can give you antibiotics just in case…”. He is apparently not up to snuff on
the antibiotic resistance war currently being waged. Following a not-at-all
reassuring shrug, he then informed us that coming to the ER for anything other
than a stabbing or a shooting essentially made us a “burden on the system”. Thanks,
doc. Just to be clear, you are essentially a burden on the collective sense of
humanity.
The Tuesday following this incident we were scheduled for a
post-trauma checkup during which Taylor would get his stitches removed. The
place responsible for such post-trauma appointments was quite specific about
its availability. Our appointment options were Tuesdays between 1 and 3. Sweet,
we’ll take Tuesday. Let’s say 2:30. Unfortunately, Delaware ended up receiving
2 inches of snow that day. On this section of the east coast that is just under
what would constitute a phone call to FEMA but just enough to shut down the
city. No post-trauma checkup for us. This was particularly unfortunate as
Taylor’s wound had chosen this day to turn an interesting shade of green. With
no primary doctor and no wish to further burden those uncertain souls at the
ER, we headed over to see a doc-in-the-box, also known as the minute-clinic,
also known as urgent care.
Reluctant as she was to put down her phone for a moment, the
receptionist at said minute-clinic checked us in using as few words or facial
movements as humanly possible. Once in a room we explained our predicament to a
nurse who presumably then explained it to the doctor who would be seeing us.
Said doctor walked into the room and asked to see Taylor’s
foot. He proceeded to stand next to the bed impatiently while Taylor struggled
to get on it and unwrap his own foot. Doc smiles looked at the foot, turned
around, and walked out of the room. He returned a moment later with two sharp
instruments and headed for Taylor’s foot. Taylor attempted to pull his foot
back and demanded to know if the instruments were clean. Doc smiles said, “yep”
and began removing the stitches without another word…and without gloves. Taylor
later remarked, “Dude, this isn’t a car, you gotta talk to this thing”. Aptly
stated, I thought.
Other interesting points of interaction included the
following:
Taylor: “There are 12 stitches to remove, ok?”
Doc Smiles: No response. Runs into problem when one stitch
sticks to instrument. Solves problem by wiping instrument on the side of the
vinyl bed and proceeding to next stitch.
Upon removing what I’m sure he thought was the last stitch,
Doc Smiles starts bandaging the wound back up.
Me: “Whoa. Whoa. Can we talk about this for a second? Are
you worried about this festering portion of the wound at all?”
Doc Smiles: “It is definitely infected.” …continues to
bandage wound.
Me: “Great, so maybe we talk about that?”
Doc Smiles: “We’re an urgent care. I’ve done about
everything I can do, but considering that he’s got this infection while already
on antibiotics, that’s a problem.”
Me: “Right, so can I get a suggestion on a plan of action
here…?”
Doc Smiles: “The antibiotic probably can’t reach the wound
because the blood vessels were probably broken in the impact. Might want to get
some IV antibiotics at the ER.”
Me: “So should we just head to the ER then?”
Doc Smiles: “I’ll just prescribe him an antibiotic.”
Me: “…that doesn’t make sense…”
Doc Smiles suddenly bursts into a monologue about the Harley
trike he purchased in the 70’s and how hard it was to get around curves. After
this he leaves the room and we never see him again.
Nurse pops in a moment later with the prescribed antibiotic
that, according to Doc Smiles, will not be effective. In one long monotone
sentence she instructs Taylor to take two a day for seven days no matter what
and then leaves the room. I poke my head out the door after about 5 minutes and
ask if we’re supposed to leave now. Some lady sitting at a computer simply nods
and turns away.
So we leave the land of apparent language deficits and head
home where I unwrap Taylor’s foot because Doc Smiles has wrapped it so tightly that
all of the accident-related blisters have burst. As I get to down to the business of re-wrapping I
realize that despite Taylor’s attempt to educate him on the number of stitches
he would need to remove, Doc Smiles has left us one, perhaps as a souvenir of
our time together. Considering that antibiotics can’t do anything about
bacteria on foreign objects (or, ostensibly, on Taylor’s wound??), I grab some
tweezers and a tiny pair of scissors from my makeup bag and remove the thing
myself. Not to worry - this was followed by a heavy rinse of hydrogen peroxide
and, in any case, couldn’t have been worse than Doc Smiles’ vinyl bed
assistant.
Attempt #2 with the post-trauma clinic is this coming
Tuesday. We so look forward to making more friends in the medical community.
