By the time I arrived at the Emergency Room, it was the size of the half-eaten croissant on my kitchen table that I glanced longingly at as I shuffled out the door..there was no time now to eat. No..this was serious business..I needed xrays, painkillers--narcotics in all probablity--possibly even surgery. No, the E.R. it was, the croissant would have to wait.
My arrival was anti-climactic. No blaring sirens, no swirling ambulance cherry-top lights, no slamming automatic doors, and worst of all, no handsome George Clooney or McDreamy types awaiting my arrival, speaking that oh-so-sexy medspeak all the hot doctors used to use.
There would be no hot doctors for me. In fact, there would be no doctors at all. For all that remains of the emergency room infrastructure we once knew are assorted orderlies, overburdened nurses, and the occasional nurse-practitioner. And THAT is if you're REALLY sick. Barring a stroke, a major heart attack, or the rare gunshot-inflicted injury, there is no longer an emergency that bears enough importance to warrant a real honest to goodness Doctor. The kind with M period D period on his plastic nametag or embroidered on his lab coat. Yes, my friends, gone are the days where you could find an actual Doctor in an emergency room. I considered feigning vertigo or palpitations just to see if one would come out of the woodwork, but lost my nerve when I considered that that might just invite more practitioners, med-techs, physicians assistants or otherwise underqualified people in scrubs hovering over me trying to guess what was wrong. So I allowed one of the many unidentified croc-wearing, scrub-attired employees to wheel me in for an xray. The wheelchair, incidentally, was most deftly handled by this employee. Which got me thinking perhaps there is a vocational school out there just for the wheelers. But I digress..
After placing my tootsies, including the injured one, in a myriad of strange positions that The L-rd never intended them to be placed into, the Xray machine (one of the many things in the E.R. that remains unchanged over the years) did its thing, and 5 minutes later, the trusty nurse practitioner lady (heretofore referred to as NP) is back in my life, telling me the results. At the risk of using old "I Love Lucy" episodes as a barometer for all things wrong with modern life, I feel the need to make this comparison. Remember when the hotel clerk was also the policeman and then the justice of the peace as well, just by changing his hat? Well, apparently, the 'ole N.P. was the doctor, the radiologist, and the orthopedic specialist too.
She said yes, when she first saw the ugly unnatural crook of my toe as well as the pastryesque shaping of it, she also believed it had been knocked out of line. But now she could assure me that according to the xray, it was not. And yes, there was nothing she could do but "buddy tape" it, to its brother, the more-functional toe next-door. And yes, it was possible I would have a misshapen painful toe and pain for a good long time, expecially considering my age. All of these I could handle. But the bad news was yet to come. It would probably be difficult, if not impossible for me to wear high heels again for a good long time. If not ever. Now I can handle tragic news like this from a surgeon. That's how we're all socialized! That's what we all learned on Marcus Welby, E.R. and General Hospital. But news like this from an N.P.??? No. This I will not accept. And so, I wobble home. Dejected. And limp to my computer. And look up "Orthopedic Surgeons" on my Insurance Company Website. For I'm too young to give up on high heels. Too young to accept how much medicine has changed. And way too short to wear flats forever. Second opinion anyone?
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