National Fall Down, Break Something and Go To The Hospital Day

Today began like every other day in my life. I was asleep and then I woke up. Bad mistake. I really didn't wake up; I just got up.

Like everybody else on this earth, I have my morning routine. Trip to the john, go to the kitchen, get coffee, check e-mail. This morning there was a slight deviation in the process that has developed over many years of practice. I spilled my coffee. Notice, I haven't said I was awake yet. That comes later.

Follow up:

Nobody has ever successfully accused me of being the best housekeeper but there are certain things that must be attended to right away. A mug of hot coffee on the floor is one of those things. I find the mop, rearrange the coffee, and go to the kitchen for a refill.

As I am heading back to check my e-mail I gingerly step across the wet part of the floor, my feet head for the ceiling and I land on my inglorious ass speaking English no Chinese has ever heard before. Cup survives but coffee goes off in search of its fellow coffee.

I head to where I last saw the mop. On the way back I notice blood all over the floor. Damn, where did all that come from. I start checking various body parts to see if they are intact. They are. Then for some inexplicable reason I look at my hand and my finger is doing it's rendition of Old Faithful. Now this is not the first time I've pared my fingers. But this time I managed to wound "the finger” the ornithology bird flipping finger, the typing finger, the chopstick manipulating finger, and most importantly one of my guitar picking fingers. And to add insult to injury I still ain't had my first cup of coffee. That is the problem. How does a right handed individual, with a bad right had, make a cup of coffee with just a working, or at least non-bleeding left hand while still half asleep? It ain't easy folks, it ain't easy.

This all happened at 5 A.M. and it has taken longer to type up to this point
than it did for the entire event to transpire. My intention here is not to tell
you of my wound or to elicit sympathy. It is to complain about the abuse of
technology.

I sat around with Molly’s favorite face towel wrapped around my finger. (She’s gonna kill me.) At 6:30 I called the waiban [the person responsible for taking care of amd seeing to the needs of foreign teachers] and told her my sad tale. She immediately responded with an Oklahoma "OMIGOD" that sounded like a Moral Majority prophet who was just caught with his pants down. Next she launches into an examination of the case, demanding the minutest detail in a way that would make Clarence Darrow proud. After a 15-minute non-stop lecture of concern mixed with the Jewish mother “you must be more careful boychik” I finally manage to get in an “I need to get a few stitches.”

At 8:30 a grumpy driver shows up in his Audi and off we go. We get to the
hospital and check in. Like I said, this really about the abuse of technology.
To get to the cut finger specialist, we head down a semi-dark hall. We pass the Pregnant Lady Department, the sick baby department and then into the toddler getting their semi-annual medical checkup department.

I think modern technology is a wonderful. It’s made our lives so easy that the most physical thing we do is flipping the channels on our remote controls. We can see the deepest parts of the universe, and we can see movies with some of the greatest actors that never existed. We can even send our thoughts half way around the world in an instant. But putting little chips in kids shoes so they can hear Donald Duck’s demonic laugh, Minnie Mouse’s squeal or the sounds of NASCAR with every step is going to far. Multiply this by two hundred little kids doing their best not to repeat my earlier performance is absolutely maddening. Here I am in the Middle of China trying to figure how to say “ONE MORE STEP, KID, AND I’M GONNA CUT YOUR FEET OFF.”

Suicide became an option when the cutest little girl, about two years old, ran up to within three feet of me and smiled, turned and ran back to her mother. “Hi, My name is Mickey Mouse, what is your name?” “Hi, My name is Mickey Mouse, what is your name?” . “Hi, My name is Mickey Mouse, what is your name?” “Hi, My name is Mickey Mouse, what is your name?” After waiting for my turn for fifteen minutes I was ready for a leisurely swim to San Francisco. I never thought that stitches would save my sanity, such as it is. After the doctor finished sewing me up the fear of Donald Duck, Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Scooby Doo, Popeye and God Knows who else rose from deep within my soul. I had to traverse that terrain again. The thought was almost paralyzing. I’d rather face an Israeli/Palestinian firefight than listen to those high-tech shoes. What kind of sick, twisted perverted mind would think up those things . I can’t believe that somebody would get a Ph.D. in computer science just so they could program a chip to be implanted into a pair of little shoes that would say “I’m Popeye the Sailor Man” with every pitter and patter of little feet. (God, you and I really gotta talk."

I never thought getting a shot in my butt was fun. Actually I had to get four
shots, twenty minutes apart. I trudged down to the “Give the old Laowai [trans. 'respected foreigner'] a shot in the butt department” There was a bevy of nurses in their blue and white uniforms starched stiffer than an old army sergeant waiting, and each one of them wanted a crack at my foreign fanny. They had this operation set up much like an Amsterdam Red Light Business. Eight or nine nurses stood in a row and I got to choose my assailants. The first one was real good at sticking old Laowai butts. I didn’t even notice it. To keep things in balance I established a right-cheek-left-cheek pattern of organization. The second Laowai butt sticker made her presence known by poking my backside looking for the most tender spot she could find and then rammed that needle home with a vengeance. The third one was an old battle-axe who looked like she’s lost more than one hatchet fight. She flat didn’t care if the old Laowai butt hurt or not. I wonder how long it will take for the repair guy to remove the finger and toe dents from the ceiling. That smarted. Finally the last nurse shows up with a needle that is every inch of nine feet long. I was left with the feeling that the others were just tenderizing my butt just so this one could really shish-kabob my ass. Actually, I was still waiting for her to skewer me like a cheap Swedish meatball when she left for tea. I'm shot and didn't notice her presence within the nine feet radius of her ubiquitous tough old high mileage heinie popper.

Other than the talking shoes, the only thing that really bothered me is what
happened next. In trying to explain what happened to me, the waiban left the
doctor with the impression that I had hit my head so he wanted a precautionary scan to make sure there was no concussion. I knew there wasn’t and said so, but he insisted and since the school was footing the bill I went along.

When we got to the CAT scan room there was a guy sitting on the bench waiting his turn. He had been there for quite a while. The CAT Scan lady came out, looked at my paperwork and motioned for me to go in. I pointed to the other guy and told her, through the waiban, that he was there before I was so it was his turn. I could see that this poor guy was hurting far more than I was. I insisted that he should go next. The waiban said it wasn’t important. The CAT scan lady said his would take much longer. I explained that I was prepared to wait all day because what they wanted me to do wasn’t fair. Finally the guy waived it off and smiled. He knew what I was trying to do. I finally agreed to go ahead provided that the waiban apologize for me. Actually my one and only ride in the CAT scan didn’t take but a few minutes and confirmed my diagnosis that there was not concussion.

This business of us not having to wait our turn is one Chinese cultural thing
that drives me nuts. Even if they won’t do it for each other, I’d rather set
the example than benefit from the rudeness. There are times when a little
rudeness might be needed to get a job done, but a hospital waiting room is not one of therm.

I really hadn’t paid much attention prior to that, but then I noticed that the
hospital was jammed with people waiting their turn while others shoved their way in. The place looked like it was national fall down, break something and go to the hospital day.

It flat pisses me off that I was ushered through the entire process while others far worse than I was had to give up their turn for me. It might be cultural but it sucks.

When I finally got home, there was a huge pile of flowers waiting at my door. I thought somebody died. They were all for me from my students. Throughout the course of the afternoon different groups of girls came by with food. I’ve got enough to last for a week. They were very concerned about my health. “But it’s only a few stitches” didn’t begin to register. I don’t want to think of what might happen if a bus hit me.

One thing I do know. It would be real easy to get used to all the pampering by all these young females. The Emperors were on to something and I bet they didn't have to fall and break something either. Wonder what I can hurt next time.

GR