by R.M. Baker
My journal entry from the day my mother separated her shoulder. I hear it's funny.
|This is my journal entry from the day my mom hurt her shoulder. I was busy that day. For the benefit of those who aren't familiar with with Newfoundland, the Health Sciences I refer to is our hospital. Also, Bobby is my brother, and Dave is my mom's friend. Enjoy!
Saturday, Aug. 02, 2003 - 9:44 p.m.
Music: REM, "Losing My Religion"
I had a freaking super day today... It was retarded. It all started out so wonderful, I had tacos for lunch, and then I realized my pink bra does fit after all! I then went out on the patio and basked in the sun, reading a novel. Then my brother runs though the door in a wild orgy of terror, for lack of a better adjective, and informs me that my mom had dislocated her shoulder after falling off an ATV. Great. So I hop on Bobby's ATV and we go down, and sure enough, there's Mater with her shoulders all askew. The friends she was with at the time were piss-hammered drunk so they were in no condition to drive her to the hospital.
20 minutes later the ambulance arrives.
There was only enough room for one of us in the ambulance so Dave went and we called my Grandparents to come and bring us to the hospital. By this time, Bobby is vomiting savagely in the bushes from sheer fright. I sigh, knowing that mom's injury is nothing that a Molson and a shot of Morphine can't fix and tell him to chill the frig out. The grandparents arrive on the scene, not in much better shape than Bobby, and I, being the stalwart grandchild and sister I am, take the bull by the testes and attempt to restore some order to the unnecessarily chaotic situation.
After explaining several times to Pop that a 5 seater car would be more efficient than a 3 seater truck in transporting the four of us plus the two in the ambulance home, his synapses finally fire and we were off, Health-Sciences bound.
Upon our arrival, mother had already been admitted and was well on her way to the land of Drug-Induced Nirvana. Bobby and I went into visit her, and to our surprsise, she found everything funny. Assuring us it was the Morphine, we left her and went down to get some nourishment.
We returned from the food court to find Mom in a wheelchair, rolling confidently down the emergency corridor. Because they had to cut off her t-shirt upon admittance, the good people of the hospital allowed her to keep the backless gown. Hoorah. After trying unsuccessfully to fill out the prescription for the horse tranquilizer-esque pain killers at Shoppers, we got them at Lawton's and were soon home.
Now in a sling, mom found it extremely difficult to put on her pyjamas, so I had to assist her. The obvious solution was, naturally, overlooked at first, but then I explained that there was no need to put the injured arm through the sleeve of the top. She looks funny now. Everytime she turns, the empty sleeve flails wildly in the air.
So, seven hours and a separated shoulder later, mom is home, and the friend that put her in the situation in the first place are now sat at the kitchen table drinking beer. I am trying, in vain of course, to explain that pain killers and alcohol don't mix. Ugh. That's about it. Hope you enjoyed the rant. Peace out.