The Three Amigos

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#TBT  This Post Was Originally Published in Feb 2006

UPDATE: In reviewing this post, I was thinking when in the hell did this happen!? I’d totally forgot about this drama until the bee sting comment, then the light clicked on and was going, oh yeah, now I remember.

What do you get when you combine 1) Monica, 2) a security badge and 3) a handicap door? The Three Amigos.  Not only that, but, you get a trip to the emergency room with Monica screaming like a banshee while the doctor sticks a needle, filled with lidocaine, into the huge gash on her foot so he can put FIVE (count ’em) FIVE stitches in the top of her foot. Here’s the lowdown…


TOP SECRET WORKPLACE

So here’s what happens. In my high-profile, “top-secret,” security-tight job (I am no longer working for this employer – Thank Heaven!), I have one of those ID badges that you swipe over a sensor to open doors. Now normally, this would not be an issue for most people, and generally it’s not for me. HOWEVER, I’m a drama queen so naturally the worst will happen to me. Our parking garage is security conscious and requires you to swipe your ID badge to get your car in and out of the garage. Not only that, you have to swipe to get OUT of the building.

For the past two months, I’ve been using the Handicap door daily to go in and out. The interesting thing is that the Handicap door has never once opened with that nice little automatic swoosh after I swipe my card. I’ve always had to yank the door open (it’s a heavy door). I’ve noticed others having to do the same thing too, so it’s not just that I’m impatient to leave the hell-hole!

MONICA BURNS COME ON DOWN

But today, Johnny Olsen called my name and said Monica Burns! Come on down!! To the ER that is. Why? Because someone fixed the broken handicap door but didn’t bother to tell anyone it was fixed. How is that a problem? Well, up until today’s tragedy, when I swipe my card the handicap door would click, and you would have to pull the door open—tug is a better description. So I swipe my card, hear the click, and I reached out to grab the door handle to pull the door open. But because some moron fixed the door, and didn’t post a sign, the automatic whoosh kicks in and the bottom corner of the 10-inch thick (I’m a writer. It was probably 7-inches) STEEL (the metal is not an exaggeration) door flies over top of my foot and bites into it like it’s auditioning for a Stephen King movie about inanimate objects that develop sentient sensibilities and attack humans (e.g., Christine, I hereafter labeled the door Christian, yeah I missed the BDSM boat on that one).

At first it was only the pain that had me crying out several choice words. I’m proud of myself in that I restrained from appalling my sensibilities by not using the F-word (UPDATE – This amazes me now, because Fuck happens to be a good curse word in my current vocabulary). Although upon reflection, the F-word would have been more than appropriate. So I sort of stumbled into the garage, thinking, ok it just hurts because it’s bruised. It’s probably just a little scratch.

NOTE TO SELF

NEVER look down when you think it’s going to be just a little scratch. One of the things you need to know about me in order to understand the high drama here is this. When I was about 12 or 13, I cut my heel on a piece of broken glass. I’m sure the amount of blood I lost wasn’t the quart I remember, but it was a pretty traumatic event. So whenever I get cut or see someone else get cut, even just a tiny scratch, I lose it. I mean, pass out kind of lose it. Paper cuts? I’m on the floor in three seconds.

So I’m swaying on my feet trying to figure out if I can make it to the elevator to get to my floor. I know I can’t walk up three flights of steps (not that I would have if I was feeling great!). So I stumble over to the metal railing hoping I can get the security guard’s attention (yeah, they keep the garage on lockdown, and keep guards posted. Like if the terrorists are gonna attack, they’re gonna hit a stupid garage. PALEEEZZE!)

Now this security guard needs some training. Not first aid training, just customer service training. He was a total moron. I’m swaying on my feet, ready to pass out and he stands in front of me chewing on something. Coulda been tobacco, coulda been something else, I don’t know, don’t care, but he just looks at me when I ask for a band-aid.

POOR IMITATION OF A MAINE STEREOTYPE

“Nope we don’t have those.”

That was it, no– would a paper towel do, can I call an ambulance, what happen to you, why are you feeling bad. This guy was worse than those stereotypes you see for citizens of Maine. Nope, Yep. You know the commercials.

So I’m trying to control the nausea roiling in my stomach. I call Greg, but he’s in a meeting over an hour away. I’m sobbing hysterically into the cell phone for him to come get me and take me to the ER. He’s going, “can you call an ambulance?” Well the last thing I wanted to admit was that, hmmm, maybe the cut’s not that bad, and if we call the Rescue Squad out for a small cut that just needs to be cleaned, then boy will I look stupid! NOT! So I sob into the phone that I’ll drive home and he can pick me up there. All I wanted was him to be my knight in shining armor and come charging to the rescue. Which he did, but it took an hour for him to get home. I’m betting Guinevere had the same timing problem with Lancelot too!

DON’T TELL DAD WE KILLED MOM!!

Before I get home, Greg has already given Marie (who was 15) and Baby (8) a heads up that Mom’s coming home injured. They meet me at the door. I sort of collapse over the steering wheel just to catch my breath and deal with the pain (have I mentioned yet I’m a Big Baby!). So the girls are thinking. OH GOD! Mom’s dead and Dad’s gonna kill us because we let her die! Naturally, when I stir to life and throw open the door, the oldest goes. “Well, Dad said you were bleeding.”

Grimacing, I swing my bare foot out of the car and Baby screams…

“O-M-GOD! You’re bleeding.”

Naturally, what does Monica do? Right! Slap a “STUPID” bumper stick on my forehead. I looked down. At which point I’m ready to pass out, which I know I can’t do in the car. What I really want to do is lay down on our bed, but I know I can’t get up the stairs.LA-Z-BOY!

I stumble into the house, and the girls are doing a great job auditioning for the role Florence Nightingale (not!). I tell Baby to call Dad because he wanted to know that I got home safe. She calls him and demands to know WHY he’s not home yet to take care of Mom. She’s bleeding like a stuck pig and she needs him. *grin* (That’s my girl! Alpha all the way). The oldest snatches the phone from Baby and says,

“Dad, my first aid is limited, but I’m thinking she needs stitches.”

At this point my stomach roils even worse. Greg finally gets home and we’re off to the mini-ER. Everyone’s quite pleasant, until they want to wash my foot. That’s when things got nasty. Actually that’s when Monica got really nasty. The others were quite nice. I explained my history, and that I just didn’t do blood or pain very well. The whole time, Greg is going, “You had two kids, how can you not handle a little bit of blood.” It was at that moment, the knight in shining armor earned a couple of dents in his metal suit.

THE PROCEDURE

I told the nurse that if I passed out it was ok, because I could handle the pain better that way. I also suggested that putting me under if they had to work on my foot would be even better! They just laughed. So now the doc comes in, he’s nice and quiet. Actually, he’s like a stealth fighter. In and out. He tells me he’s gonna have to numb my foot. That’s bad news because it means needles.

Then he tells me more bad news. He has to put the shot into the cut itself. O-M-GOD!! How did they survive a 100 years ago? I was the biggest baby. I admit it, I was. That little sting sure as hell didn’t feel like the bee he said would feel like. It was a damn wasp the size of Montana! But on top of that that, he discovered another section of the cut that had to be sutured. How did he find it? When I screamed that I could feel him putting the suture needle through the skin. So he had to give me another shot. That’s when I lost it. I was blubbering and sobbing like a two-year-old.

Finally, the shot kicked in and the nurse was talking to me while the doc was working. She got me on to my favorite topic, WRITING! So I told her I was an erotic romance writer. I don’t know that she really understood what I meant, although she seemed to enjoy our conversation. So now you know, probably more than you ever wanted to know, how some people are the biggest wusses you’ll ever meet. Writer, hear me whimper.

But at least I earned some great experience points tonight. I now know what it’s like to feel that suture needle sticking into skin that’s not been numbed. THUMP! ….I’m ok, I’ll be fine, just hit the floor there for a moment. I’ll be back…umm maybe tomorrow.

Monica

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About Monica Burns

A bestselling author of erotic romance, Monica Burns penned her first short romance story at the age of nine when she selected the pseudonym she uses today. From the days when she hid her stories from her sisters to her first completed full-length manuscript, she always believed in her dream despite rejections and setbacks. A workaholic wife and mother, Monica believes it’s possible for the good guy to win if they work hard enough.

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