Sunday, November 14, 2010
Have I mentioned I hate Sundays
I had a lovely time in the greater Hadley area this weekend, but arrived home to find John in the throes of a nasty bout of food poisoning. (Note to patrons of neighborhood Indian joints: Don't order the duck special.) He seemed to be through the worst of it, but then, after downing some Gatorade, he vomited again and passed out on the bathroom floor. So we spent the rest of the day in the ER. While we were waiting in the triage area, a man and a woman were rolled in on gurneys; they'd clearly been in an accident. The woman was moaning, and the man kept saying, "Where's my wife? I want to talk to my wife." Someone finally responded "She's right over there, just talk, she can hear you," and he called out, "I'm sorry." Then they rolled the woman off into surgery, presumably, while the man continued to say, "Where's my wife? I want to be near my wife." He couldn't turn his head because of a brace around his neck. They finally rolled him away too. It seemed so much like a scene in a movie, a hospital scene, a horrific glimpse into the lives of strangers. It seemed so scripted, although the EMS guy was not a good actor. In a movie, however, it wouldn't have been sad, just horrific. As it is, it's one of the saddest things I've ever seen. I told Rebecca the other day that if I was an actor, and I ever needed to cry on cue, I'd picture one of those baby monkeys in a lab, clinging to a "mother" made of a wire frame and terry-cloth towels. Now I think I'd picture this. John was lying on one of those shitty hospital beds, nauseated and dehydrated beyond belief, and he started comforting me.