Punctured lung. Broken shoulder blade. Broken rib. Staples in my head. Assorted contusions and moderate road rash. As you might’ve guessed, I went bike riding. I wasn’t jumping a canyon,
I was pedaling along a bike trail, missed the turn and went speeding into a concrete wall. As a result, I’m hooked up to a chest pump, a morphine drip, and inflatable leg compression: I can’t go to the bathroom alone or walk without an entourage of equipment and medical personnel.
I’m finally the person I most feared becoming: an invalid.
This is the stoopidest thing I’ve done so far. Stoopider than the pressure cooker incident: stoopider than the scissors as bottle opener incident; stoopider than fighting with a dumpster. Oy, such a laundry list of dumb.
If any good comes from this fiasco, it will be me realizing I’m not 12 any longer. Bones do break and it hurts a whole effing lot. So I’m going to think hard while I’m shackled like a hostage and the question I’ll be asking is: so, genius, how much fun is this part?
On a related note, I cooked up a way to convert the hospitalization experience from clinical and scary to entertaining: bunk beds. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? A hospital stay as summer camp.
I know, it’s wildly impractical and beyond reckless, but big deal. Patients are more likely to die of boredom than falling out of bed. In nursing homes, too. Let’s liven up the joints with bunk beds and mosquito netting; I bet we’d reduce mortality rates at the same time.
Two birds, one stone.
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