I learned today that my recent hobby is, inevitably, going to kill me - or at least kick my ass. I'm clumsy by nature, those who know me will attest to this fact. Those who know me will also testify as to my propensity for bad luck. Particularly recently. (I was just in the ER earlier this month with fractured ribs from falling off of my bike.) I'm also notorious for putting myself in bad situations - like hiking though Hyde Park in Chicago in my highlighter pink polo shirt. But hey - this is me. This is what I do.
So today - I was meeting an old friend for lunch at a great little restaurant in Chinatown. I decided to bike it from the office (I rode in today - it was 60 degrees in February). I got to the restaurant with no problems. It was when I was getting ready to lock up the bike, and I was trying to jar my lock from its holder, that I ran into trouble.
As I was yanking with all of my might - the lock broke free from the holder and my hand swiftly thrusted downward, meeting the greasy teeth of the chainring. I think that's what it's called. It's the round metal thing with the sharp pointy teeth and grit and grime all over it that holds your bike chain. Yeah. My hand hit that thing... and my hand lost.
A swift trip to the most ghetto hospital ever created was in order. It was turning out to be quiet a fun day - and was about to get even better. I dropped my bike at the office (scarfed down the Beef Chow Fun take out that I wisely ordered) and headed to Hanehman Hospital just North of City Hall in Philly.
Seriously - the lobby looked like a homeless shelter. I shit you not. Everybody was dirty and passed out. I was almost ready to leave, but before I could, the lovely cross-eyed woman from behind the bullet proof glass at the registration desk called me over using her microphone from 1992, "ccsshhhh - Mister Morris - cccssshhhh." I immediately stepped out of the soup line and walked over to her window to move the process forward. I told her that the glass wasn't necessary - and that I had left my gun with my bicycle.
Triage was great. The nurse was pleasant and clearly she was enjoying her day. This may sound sarcastic - but I assure you it is not intended to be. She took my blood pressure, asked about medical history, and we laughed about my day's mishap - all with a smile on her face. This was the most pleasant triage nurse I had ever met. (ER triage is a field where I may be considered an expert in some parts of the country). I even told her about the great Chinese take out I had eaten. I felt like we became instant BFFs. It was about this time that I realized why she was so happy. She walked back to the ER and actually said to me, "We don't get many 'normal' patients here. So the residents are gonna fight over you." After that - I over heard her telling them that she took my blood sugar reading and that it was high. THEN - I actually had, AND TOOK, some insulin. This was revolutionary for these folks, apparently.
Fast forward to the end result because this post is getting a bit long and there was nothing funny or particularly interesting about getting the stitches. Here is what they looked like...
Glue and steri strips for the middle finger. Three stitches on the ring. One on the pinky. No matter how much they tried - the grease wouldn't come off.
So I guess I've learned several things today.
1. Biking is gonna kill me or contribute, in some way, to my inevitable death.
2. Avoid North Philly trauma hospitals, if possible.
3. Beef Chow Fun from Sang Kee Duck house on 9th & Vine is absolutely incredible.
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