For Those Who Dare to Dare

I can’t keep this story to myself – though I will keep it rated PG. That said, it is what it is.  (Sorry in advance.;)  Consider this a FORMAL WARNING – do not continue reading if you’re prone to sympathy pains.

A few weeks ago, we spent a Saturday night in the ER. One of Charlee’s friends – I’ll call her Lucy (as in Lucky Lucy) – got hit in the head while at Warped Tour and needed to be taken to the hospital for observation. The only information provided by the EMS was the hospital she was to be taken to.

Of course, it seemed to take forever to get there, as is always the case when you are in a rush. Standing before the front desk, we could see that the woman in ‘charge’ was not one to mess with. Her short stature did not hinder her ability to intimidate and take control. Evident as we watched her address varied issues of those in line before us. {I was not looking forward to this interaction. She appeared to be agitated by the constant influx. I was not Lucy’s mother – in fact, I had only met Lucy two times… Charlee was my driving force.  She did not want her friend to be alone!}

It was our turn, we explained what we could. Mrs. Front-desk-lady made a call and was told ‘There was no Lucy So-n-so at this hospital.’  She relayed the message, momentarily dismissing us to deal with another influx.

We had no choice but to wait. Frank made a call to the Warped Tours security office and other area hospitals – everything pointed back to the hospital ER we were standing in. Mrs. Front-desk-lady became annoyed. It did not sit well with her that we were not getting proper feedback and concrete information. (Thank You dear woman! I thought you were going to be mad at us…) How unacceptable that we were not able to locate Lucy! Mrs. Front-desk-lady quickly became our own personal hospital advocate. She called this station, then called that station, then another… after hanging up the phone the last time she had a thought. Jerking the phone off the receiver, she called the same station back and re-asked a revised question, “Do you have any 17 year olds with no name listed?” When the voice on the other end answered yes, Mrs. Front-desk-lady rolled her eyes in exasperated disbelief, turning a slight shade of red. Rather than get into a discussion, she slammed the phone down, “That’s it! Come with me, I’m gonna find your friend…” With that, she bolted from her seat, mumbling, scurrying past me. I follow her through the doors. She was frustrated that we were given no information, and that this poor – most likely scared – kid had been alone for all this time. (Kudos to her for being human!!! Although at the moment she was reminding me of one of the little Partridge Family birds with the really fast legs.)

“She was brought in as a ‘no-name’ because she was knocked out when the Emergency Personal first assisted her.” Her legs never stopped moving.

{Ok. Consider this the foundational portion of the story – though not ‘the story’ I wanted to share. Now comes ‘The Story’}

As we walked the hall, I pointed out a puddle of blood. Mrs. Front-desk-lady had raced through the doors so fast that she didn’t notice. Turning to look, she said nonchalantly, “Oh, that must have been from the woman having the miscarriage…” I was – of course – taken back. {So matter of factly? Really??} “Oh geez?! How do you sleep at night? Doesn’t this stuff haunt you?”  She waved her hands in the air, shaking her head, “No, No. That, sadly, you get use to,” still hurrying down the hall as she spoke. (FYI – She was concerned about leaving her station, but she really wanted to get me to Charlee’s friend.)

“It’s the other stuff that gets me. The stuff you don’t expect.” We passed a small room with a nurse stationed inside.  Mrs. Front-desk-lady quickly backtracked, informing her of the blood, and then continued down the hall. “One of the recent ones that got to me was this man. He was not drunk. He was not on drugs. He was not dealing with any mental disabilities. He was a perfectly normal 53 year old man. {Brace yourselves guys.} He got it into his head that it was about time he was circumcised. So he took it upon himself to do it.”20849022.thm[1]

Her short little legs did not miss a beat. A mumbled “What???!” was all I could think to respond. She kept talking, as I trailed close behind, making sure not to bump into her as she shifted directions. “Yeah, he figured he was 53, it was time. It took a little bit for me to understand what was actually going on with him. At first, all I knew was that he was in quite a lot of pain {uh? ya think?!} and bleeding from his penis. I took him right back to a doctor.”  We rounded another corner in the hospital hallway maze, “The funny part is, the only doctor that was available right away was this guy on staff. He’s Russian and doesn’t say much. Doesn’t react to anything you bring to him, but when I handed him the paperwork and he read what he had to address, he walked behind the ER curtain and yelled, “Really???! REALLY???!”

I will leave the rest of the conversation a mystery – though rest assured, it was a night to remember for both men. Stitching up one’s member hits too close to home – no matter who’s perspective you view it from.

Turning one last corner, we were finally in the ER. Glancing in room after room, we searched for Lucy. Both of us were thankful that the woman we heard screaming was not her. Poor lady. Her face was gashed from the top of her head straight down past her chin… and that was not what was bothering her.  She was MAD at the big-n-burly male nurse who was assigned to her – and was doing his damnedest to keep her from further injuring herself. She was clearly not thinking clearly and was insisting on leaving – he was repeatedly insisting she stay in the bed. Every time she tried to maneuver out around the bedrail, he strong-armed her back in… and she would yell.

A few rooms later we found our girl. I no sooner said, “Yes! That’s her!” and Mrs. Front-desk-lady was gone. I didn’t even get a chance to thank her.

Time passed as expected in an ER. Doctors came and went. Reports and tests as well. We were ‘entertained’ by a man heaving down the hall… not far enough down the hall!…. It seemed he would never stop – nor would his animated groans of exhaustion following each retch.

Lucy’s family finally made it to the ER, {it helps to know which hospital to go to!?!!} and hence, my time playing surrogate relative/caretaker came to an end. I was truly thankful that everything was okay.

Navigating the maze back to the Front-desk-lady, I passed the spot where the blood once was. A prayer for the woman having the miscarriage was in order. Please God, help her. (I say it again as I write this…) As a parent it is too much to fathom. Yes – I suppose I would rather think about the man foregoing forethought where his foreskin was concerned… (oye)

Mrs. Front-desk-lady was back at her now quiet station. I was glad she was still working so I could thank her for all her help – and she was glad to hear the positive outcome. As for the finale of this story – well, I’ll just relay some conversation highlights….

“I’m really glad she is okay. I know this may sound crazy, but there’s a full moon tonight {In fact, it was the fullest moon of the year.} and whenever that happens the ER is full. When we heard that Warped Tour was happening during a full moon, many staff employees scheduled their vacation days. No one wanted to be here for that.  Last year the halls were lined with gurneys and kid after kid on IV’s. There were no rooms left. It was overwhelming. This year – with the full moon timing – people were concerned. Thankfully it didn’t turn out as bad as last year.”

I nodded in relieved agreement, informing her that it may have had something to do with the more stringent Warped Tour rules implemented thanks to those previous experiences… She nodded along, then said she had another story to share – one to rival the first. Presenting before her were several utility repairmen, who had rushed themselves to the ER. They were still in their uniforms, though they were drunk – and doubled over in pain. Somehow {?} working overtime prompted them to break up the monotony by staging an ultimate dare. {Why? Why would grown men accept this dare??} How many washers can you fit on your – ahem – ‘male member?’ {Brings bedazzling the Family Jewels to a new level.} Of course, I – or anybody for that matter – could have told them straight away that this wasn’t a well thought out dare – but they didn’t think nor ask. So washer after washer was donned. Just about the time the pain started kicking in – probably about the same time that the beer kicked in and they needed to pee – they figured out that those washers would not come off. The only option was the ER.

The swelling could only be addressed with powerful medication… via injections. The screams of men were heard… pretty much everywhere… as their tender vittles endured the final futile points of truths to their dare.

Once the literal washer chokehold was released, they still had to endure peeing…. Poor guys. Sympathy may have been present, but only if you listened closely… r e a l l y close… as the sounds of laughter drowned pretty much everything out….

I would have to agree with Mrs. Front-desk-lady, “I don’t care how drunk they were! There is no way they are ever going to forget what happened!!”  I couldn’t help but chuckle – albeit a cringed chuckle.

With that, I turned to look at Frank. I figured he might be dealing with empathetic sympathy pains… He was already out the doors halfway to the street. My ride home had left the building.

I caught up, telling him the second story. His comment, “Sounds like they’re all washed up.” and “You know who won the contest? The guy with the smallest d*ck. Think about it, he had the least amount of washers to remove…”

Yup, I would have to agree.

I am left wondering? Do you think any of them have ever interacted with each other again? Seriously? Hanging out with the guys has taken on a whole new meaning. Do they even dare??

 

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