There’s nothing like a call from the emergency room to make a person snap to attention and concentrate on the important things. The one I’m referring to came on Saturday afternoon, when I was sitting on the front porch, trying to read a book after a fight with my daughter, when my husband matter-of-factly announced that he was in the ER because he’d been hit by a car while out on his bike. Everything was fine, he hastened to add. Just waiting for the brain scan to come back. “We’ll be home soon.”
Well, it turns out his first call was not to me, but to our EMT son Noah. (Yiddish accent: My son the EMT) “I knew he was home,” Warren said. “And I thought he’d take a professional interest.”
By the time I got there, the two of them were cozily ensconced in a bay, watching the Mets game and waiting for the x-ray results. Warren was all scratched up but it was much less scary that his last bike accident, in 2004, when he lost consciousness and suffered some temporary amnesia. Of course this time he was wearing a helmet. That helps.
But there was one more rotten surprise, and that was the fact that the driver of the car who struck him Saturday was hit-and-run. Bastard.
Still, a relief to see that it was mostly scratches up and down Warren’s legs and then the nurse came in and said the radiologist had given him the good-to-go.
Of course the unexamined family trauma is not worth living, so I Facebooked it and took this picture afterwards.
Long story short, Warren is fine. Back to work today. We had a little “I’m not dead” party on the back deck, just a few friends and a little tequila, Sunday afternoon. As we went through the history of all the ER calls over the years, we even joked that my next book might be “Bikes from a Marriage.”
Nobody wants to lose a day to the ER. But when the patients walks out under their own power, it’s a cause for celebration.