This one hearkens back to circa 1983. To set the stage, I was 31, Randy 32, Elena 5, and Jackson 2. It was back when our health insurance first became a PPO and we didn't have direct access to any providers. You had to call an 800 number and plead your case with a triage nurse before you could get seen by anyone.
So, one night we were in the kitchen and Randy was standing at the cutting board slicing jalepenos for nachos when, suddenly and inexplicably, he started screaming and jumping up and down. I rushed to him and found water pouring out of his eyes and nose as he was screaming about somehow getting a piece of jalepeno stuck up his nose. As I recall, I started screaming and jumping up and down in front of him in an empathetic, but not particularly helpful gesture. Realizing that this was an actual emergency, I ran to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Not knowing exactly what I was looking for, I rushed back to the kitchen holding some tweezers.
Randy, still screaming and jumping up and down, added bellowing "NO!" repeatedly and emphatically to his repertoire. I decided we clearly needed professional medical assistance and ran to retrieve that insurance card with the promising 800 number to call in an emergency. Before calling, I tried to take a history so I could present a compelling case that we needed immediate medical assistance.
I dialed the 800 number, spelled my name several times, and recited various identifying numbers while Randy continued hollering and jumping behind me. I explained as calmly and coherently as I could that my husband had inadvertently snorted a piece of jalepeno, perhaps a seed, and it seemed to be lodged in his sinus behind his left eye. He had been making nachos and then sneezed and now he was in a real crisis.
She put me on hold. When she returned she said, "Ms. Grothe (but she pronounced it GROWTH), are you the same person whose son bit into a light bulb on Sunday?"
To be continued....
1 comment:
i smell a hit sitcom!
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