I am an E.R. veteran. I've broken bones, been concussed, had stitches multiple times. And that was just on Prom Night. So I wasn't exactly amazed to find myself in the E.R. on a Sunday afternoon. But I was surprised to get stapled as opposed to stitched.
I decided to do some long-overdue housecleaning (mistake #1), and was on my hands and knees, cleaning off my bedside table. My left knee slipped on a graphic novel (The Origin of VENOM, as it turned out) and I bonked the top of my head on the metal drawer handle.
Three hours later, I was still trickling blood, so my husband drove me to the E.R. I assumed I'd get a stitch or I'd get nothing. Imagine my surprise when the pre-pubescent doctor said, "I'm going to give you a staple or two. And it's so minor, I'm not even going to give you anything for the pain!" Boy, she was cheerful. And deluded.
Then, "Now where's the stapler?" Imagine that! It's not just office workers who lose their staplers; doctors do, too!
Eventually the stapler was found and, unfortunately, loaded. "So," says I, "if you're not even going to give me a Novocaine shot, that must mean it's not going to hurt very...EEE-YOW!"
"Almost done," annoying E.R. doc chirped.
"No," I corrected her, secure in my six feet and 175 pounds. "You're not putting 'one or two' staples in my head. You're putting ONE. In my head."
"Gee, I'm sorry it hurt, but it's too late to give you anything for it now."
"Well, then, THANKS FOR NOTHING." Argh.
So, I've been walking around with a metal staple in my head. I get it taken out on Friday, which is a good thing, since I have to walk through an airport metal detector on Saturday. Hmm. Maybe I should leave it in. Anything to get to go to the head of the line.