Doctors, Hospitals and Emergency Rooms

Pete and I are beginning to feel quite at home haunting the corridors of hospitals lately.

Following my doctor's advice, we started attending a Birthing Class, or Prenatal Class, or whatever those classes are where they scare expectant couples half to death telling you everything that could possibly go wrong with your pregnancy, labor, and delivery, and then proceed to tell you about everything that could go wrong with your newborn and your postpartum body. I'm quite enjoying it. The classes are held at the hospital, and as part of class we had a tour of the hospital last Monday, so when I do start to feel those crippling labor pains I'll know where to go and whom to yell at. I even know where surgery is in case I become one in four mothers to need a cesarean section.

Our most recent experience with the glories of modern American medical care, however, was not a planned one. Pete called yesterday morning to tell me he was on his way to the Emergency Room. He had been at work slicing turkey on the industrial meat slicer (he manages a restaurant, for those of you who don’t know) and his glove got caught, pulling his hand into the whirling blade. He’s lucky it didn’t take a finger off, although I dare say he will miss that chunk of his thumb that’s now gone. No worries, just a flesh wound. It didn’t hit the bone and there doesn’t appear to be any nerve damage. But he is on some heavy painkillers and a bit self conscious of the huge bandages he gets to sport for the next couple weeks. And I don’t think he loves the fact that his eight-month pregnant wife is now his designated chauffer (because of the painkillers). It makes him feel unchivalrous to make me drive everywhere when I am currently struggling a bit to hoist myself in and out of the car. But I don’t mind. I’m just glad he’s okay and that he won’t be a stumpy dad in all the sentimental pictures we’ll have taken for our newborn photo shoot. (I won a free newborn photo shoot at a service auction--Those black and white naked baby photos would look ridiculous if half of Pete’s fingers were missing in the background.)



Seriously, it’s good to know he’ll be alright and that the worst injury he suffered was to his pride. In the meantime, he’s sleeping off the effects of Lortab and making some of the funniest comments he’s ever come out with. (But no mere laceration from the meat slicer could keep him from attending the Auto Expo in Salt Lake last night—we went despite the blood, the pain, the drugs and all).





Oh, but I can’t forget to mention that Pete nearly passed out when the ER doctors took the towel off his thumb to give him the shots of local anesthesia. They suggested he make sure to have juice and snacks on hand when I deliver to make sure that he doesn’t faint and miss the whole thing. I suggested that he just not watch and hold my hand instead. I think he was relieved that I was okay with that option.