One week after the debacle of trying to register his bone marrow, SB was ready for another good deed. As I was consigned to a pair of crutches due to an unfortunate incident involving a dragon boat street party, special rum punch and a low lying rope, SB decided to wash the dishes for me. I was lying abed, contemplating the mysteries of the universe when I heard him curse. SB cursing in the kitchen is a regular occurrence but this time the swearing seemed a bit more emphatic. I hobbled over to him as quickly as possible to find him clutching his hand. "What is it," I squeaked. "I'm going to need stitches," he replied, indicating to a broken glass that he had apparently shoved his hand through. I sent him to the bathroom to rinse the soap off his hand while I cleaned up the kitchen sink. Unfortunately for me, I mistook a small piece of cooked tomato for part of his finger. Hilarity did not ensue. I chased SB with what he thought was an unusual amount of paper towels before I was finally able to see his finger and discern that everything appeared to be still attached except for some skin and surface tissue.
SB went to the hospital without me; with my inability to put any weight on my foot, I was more of a liability than a help. He called me fifteen minutes later from the Accident & Emergency department to tell me that he was being advised to transfer to another hospital where there was a doctor on duty who could ascertain nerve damage but that would require an overnight stay. He wasn't too keen on staying overnight in a hospital but I insisted that he get fully checked out. As we were discussing the options I heard, "uh, oh," and then silence followed by a thump and a lot of voices in the background. Oh great. He was probably out cold somewhere in the A&E.
I hobbled down to the taxi stand and was at the hospital within ten minutes. When I entered the A&E, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair but I clarified that I was not checking in but looking for the big, white guy who fainted. Room 7, the orderly replied. SB was lying in a cot that was too short for him, covered in a blanket and looking sad and sorry. "I fainted," he informed me. Yeah, I figured that part out. Twenty minutes later the transfer ambulance arrived. Their stretcher was even shorter than the cot. They were trying to get him to move up on the stretcher but he didn't understand them. "Scoot up," I told him and he complied. As the EMTs were strapping him in a nurse came up to me with a pen and had me write "scoot" on her hand. I wrote it for her but later wasn't so sure whether non-American English speakers would respond to it.
SB was transferred without incident to the nerve specialist ward where he was able to flirt with a really cute, young nurse. One of the EMTs seemed to be sweet on the nurse and grumbled to her that SB had not revealed that he could speak Cantonese previous to seeing the cute nurse. We were relieved to be informed that his hand did not seem to have nerve damage and at 4am he was finally sutured by a doctor who had been on shift since 7am the previous day. The stitching wasn't bad considering the doctor's fatigue. He was kind (and intelligent) enough to pay attention to my warning of SB's needle phobia and distracted him throughout the procedure with tales of the people he had sewn up throughout the night when he discovered that SB's needle issues did not prevent him from enjoying tales of blood and gore. I don't know who enjoyed the tales more; SB was listening avidly while the doctor was assuring him that we had no idea how bizarre (and extensive) some people's injuries were. Then the doctor asked SB about his other suture incidents and listened in awe as SB described the hockey puck that had cut his eyelid, the sailboat rigging that had torn his thigh open, and the basketball court that opened up his elbow.
The doctor wanted SB to stay in his room until morning though I'm not sure why. Perhaps he wanted someone to entertain until his shift was over. We convinced him to discharge us, though, and were back in our bed by morning. In the taxi on the way home SB was going on about some Peruvian llamas that had a genetic mutation which caused them to faint when startled. It was good to see him back to his bouncy, weird self.
SB went to the hospital without me; with my inability to put any weight on my foot, I was more of a liability than a help. He called me fifteen minutes later from the Accident & Emergency department to tell me that he was being advised to transfer to another hospital where there was a doctor on duty who could ascertain nerve damage but that would require an overnight stay. He wasn't too keen on staying overnight in a hospital but I insisted that he get fully checked out. As we were discussing the options I heard, "uh, oh," and then silence followed by a thump and a lot of voices in the background. Oh great. He was probably out cold somewhere in the A&E.
I hobbled down to the taxi stand and was at the hospital within ten minutes. When I entered the A&E, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair but I clarified that I was not checking in but looking for the big, white guy who fainted. Room 7, the orderly replied. SB was lying in a cot that was too short for him, covered in a blanket and looking sad and sorry. "I fainted," he informed me. Yeah, I figured that part out. Twenty minutes later the transfer ambulance arrived. Their stretcher was even shorter than the cot. They were trying to get him to move up on the stretcher but he didn't understand them. "Scoot up," I told him and he complied. As the EMTs were strapping him in a nurse came up to me with a pen and had me write "scoot" on her hand. I wrote it for her but later wasn't so sure whether non-American English speakers would respond to it.
SB was transferred without incident to the nerve specialist ward where he was able to flirt with a really cute, young nurse. One of the EMTs seemed to be sweet on the nurse and grumbled to her that SB had not revealed that he could speak Cantonese previous to seeing the cute nurse. We were relieved to be informed that his hand did not seem to have nerve damage and at 4am he was finally sutured by a doctor who had been on shift since 7am the previous day. The stitching wasn't bad considering the doctor's fatigue. He was kind (and intelligent) enough to pay attention to my warning of SB's needle phobia and distracted him throughout the procedure with tales of the people he had sewn up throughout the night when he discovered that SB's needle issues did not prevent him from enjoying tales of blood and gore. I don't know who enjoyed the tales more; SB was listening avidly while the doctor was assuring him that we had no idea how bizarre (and extensive) some people's injuries were. Then the doctor asked SB about his other suture incidents and listened in awe as SB described the hockey puck that had cut his eyelid, the sailboat rigging that had torn his thigh open, and the basketball court that opened up his elbow.
The doctor wanted SB to stay in his room until morning though I'm not sure why. Perhaps he wanted someone to entertain until his shift was over. We convinced him to discharge us, though, and were back in our bed by morning. In the taxi on the way home SB was going on about some Peruvian llamas that had a genetic mutation which caused them to faint when startled. It was good to see him back to his bouncy, weird self.
Comments
Anyway, for future reference, "scoot up" is meaningless in British English.
Bit of a wuzz you married, didn't you?
I had a feeling that "scoot" wasn't universal. How about scooter instead of moped?
Yeah, if I had known about his mental deformity I would have traded him in but now I'm kinda fond of him. Almost everyone I know who has ever owned a friesian horse has a similar response.
You can say "scoot along" in British English, but that simply means something like "get going, and don't hang around".