Fields I Am Not Cut Out For Friday

Recently, I took on the role of supportive wife to an injured husband. It wasn't too difficult, I suppose. More a labor of love than hard labor like say, dredging a lake or cleaning the shower door track. To be clear, I've never actually dredged before and really the only holes I've ever dug were at the beach and, well, that's just down right fun. But, I digress.

I enjoyed the extra time with my husband even if it meant occasionally having my fingers crushed while giving him a hand to stand up. I went out and bought ice packs and heat strips, creams and ibuprofen. And when he finally decided he had to go to the doctor, I happily trekked along with him and took over filling out all the forms when standing became too painful for him but sitting was not an option. It felt so good helping him that I thought to myself, "Maybe this is what I should do. Maybe I should be a nurse. Or something."

At the hospital we were directed to the "Immediate Care Clinic" an efficient sounding title that conjured thoughts of rapid service, a quick "Where does it hurt? Take this and call me in the morning."

Then the wait began and the room started to fill with hospital wheelchairs and limping kids, "sprained his ankle" their parents would say to the nurse.
I noticed the movement of two figures walk to the front desk, but had been too caught up in counting the floor tiles to look up. It was my husband's heavy exhale and groan that piqued my curiosity.

So I raised my eyes and there, standing at the desk, was a man with a teenager in a basketball jersey. And then I noticed the boy's finger. And how he held it out. So calmly. So nonchalantly. So S-shaped. "He got hurt playing," the man said. 

I didn't even know it was possible. Why? How? And when will this wave of nausea subside?

My husband's name was called and I tried sneaking into the doctor's room with him. But it was too small for the three of us so I sulked back to the waiting room. I tried looking everywhere but at the curvature of this boy's finger. I pushed myself to get lost in the glow of the waiting room tv, to let the paid advertising consume my mind. But the tv was right above the doorway to that deceptively named "Immediate Care Clinic" that alias of lies. This is the Emergency Room. These people are all in EMERGENCY.  Just then, an older man walked through the doors. Covered. In. Blood. "I fell" he said, lifting a self-wrapped bandage from his head.

Sprained ankles. Crooked joints. Blood. I went lightheaded as the warmth of dizziness spread over me.

My husband came through the doors and nodded to me that we could leave and at that moment, I wanted to personally thank every hospital HR person that had sent my resume to the slush pile.

Field I am not cut out for: Medical


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