mind you, i can't remember how the horrible accident shown below happened. in fact, i can't even find out, because i don't know how to contact any of my "teammates" ...
i think i was standing on first base, with either no outs or one out.
i think the ball was hit to the shortstop. i think i started running toward second.
next thing i remember is someone asking me for my home phone number. i gave it -- i'm not sure how -- and then i am in the front seat of my neighbor's van, with a hysterical a. ...
as far as i can remember, i might have been trying to break up a double play, and the shortstop may have thrown the ball straight into my face. (at least i broke up the double play that way) or maybe i got hit by a line drive. thing is, i have no idea.
my teammates have not called. have not stopped by. didn't even bother to stop the game, even though i was unconscious for about 45 seconds on the field. they just dragged me off, called a. and told her that i "might not be able to drive" and, apparently, kept on playing.
what makes this all the more disconcerting is that it's an official league, with official rules, and an official umpire. one would think that there would be procedures in place to handle such situations -- and maybe, just maybe, they were followed. if that's the case, then they seriously need to be rewritten. and if they weren't, or if none exist, it might require a call to my favorite law firm, seeing as how i've got some pretty serious damage to my front teeth.
and what makes it even more disconcerting is that, in theory, i play for a church-league team. yes, that's right -- my "community" church of about 3,000 people organized this team. and the spirit of christian brotherhood has so moved my fellow teammates that not a single one of them, to my knowledge, has found any way to get hold of me or a., to see if i'm OK, to explain what happened, etc.
i am sorely disappointed in this group of men, and while it does nothing to diminish my opinion of the church i attend, it certainly does color in some of the outer edges of the picture.
***
so the ER was nice. i'll have to admit that.
the most frightening moment was right after i was admitted ... even though i was totally out of it, i realized that the speed with which i was being admitted into the ER was a sign that i looked far worse than i'd thought.
the doctors put a neck collar on me, a precaution because i'd lost consciousness on the field, and immediately my arms began to lose feeling. imagine what it feels like when your arm or leg goes to sleep, only that you're totally 100 percent aware of what's happening and have no ability whatsoever to wake it up. that's what it was like, and i think the doctors went into george-clooney-on-"ER" mode and started ordering CT scans and biopsies and 50 cc's of whatever STAT and all that.
turns out it was a false alarm. but what an alarm.
the ER personnel were nice, friendly and very, very gentle. and one of a.'s best friend's sisters works there, so she came down to see the freak show in all my glory. it was great to see her, only because it was another friendly face.
after three hours or so, i was released home. i could barely keep my eyes open on the drive back, because of all the drugs they'd given me -- drugs that were very, very nice, by the way. the first few seconds after the injection my heart raced to about twice its normal limit, which worried me, but soon settled down and put me in a very euphoric state.
i credit that with allowing me to keep my cool for the most part that night. some things you can't change, and this was like 20 of them, so what else could i do but listen to the doctors, fantasize about the nurses, and watch the wall clock turn into a giant vicodin-breathing lizard every minute or so?
***
so now it's been, what, 48+ hours, and i'm out of the acceptance phase, almost past the too-pissed-off-to-breathe phase, and just entering the let's-face-how-fucked-up-things-are-going-to-be phase. i made breakfast this morning, which is a good sign ... a pathetic attempt at an omelet -- but i did include some mini-chopped summer sausage, and some sauteéd mushrooms, which is good. i can "chew" scrambled eggs, and as long as i don't think about the fact that my two front, and one right, teeth feel like chiclets, i actually can enjoy a bit of food.
sorry for the gross picture below; as you can see, i edited it after chief's comments. it was kind of gross, but hey -- that's as pretty as it gets around here for a few weeks, at least.
4 comments:
that's flipping wrong, dude. christian brotherly love, my foot. your non-denominational co-worker cares more about your accident than your team, much less the person who threw the gaddamn ball. sheesh.
but was it a playoff game? :)
Seriously, that's really wrong. I think a letter to the church fellows explaining your disappointment is in order.
Religious folks aren't much different from other folks, and unfortunately that includes a measure of obliviousness and self-centeredness, and any other -ness you care to name.
But I am surprised that in a group of 20-40 players, officials and observers (regardless of belief system) there wasn't one person there who saw a passed-out player and said, "Are you all on crack? He needs a hospital now, put him in my car, call his wife and tell her to meet us there."
But more than anything, I'm just glad you're OK. How it is you find yourself on vicodin every 6-12 months while I've never seen the stuff? :)
i can mail you some, if you like. :)
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