It was not the way anyone wants to spend her birthday weekend, but I was living the nightmare. I had been taken to the emergency ward with acute pain in my side, and now I was lying in a draped-off cubicle full of tubes and discomfort—sleep was a far-off, elusive sanctuary.
So, when, at 3 a.m., there was a great commotion outside of the curtains surrounding my bed, I knew that peaceful rest would still be a long time coming; however, I was not prepared for the ridiculous uproar that erupted only seconds later.
A gurney was rolled in carrying a man strapped to a board with a support collar around his neck. He was followed by a troop of uniformed officers; whether they were RCMP or Police officers, I could not see through the space in the drapes, but I could hear their discussions clearly.
They spoke of a drunk driver who had swerved to miss an oncoming vehicle and had rolled his truck over, possibly down a ravine. The driver and front passenger had been wearing seatbelts, but had still been thrown around the overturned truck.
Thinking that the male that had been pushed to the bed beside me was an innocent party in all of this, I felt initial sympathy for him. I may have been in pain, but this poor guy had been injured horrifically in a car accident by a drunk driver.
But, then I heard this: “Well,” the guy was telling the officers, “I only had six or seven beers before I started to drive home.”
So he was the driver, I realized, which explained the gaggle of law enforcement accompanying him. My sympathy melted to disgust, and then even my disgust managed to deteriorate to something beyond abhorrence.
The guy was explaining his side of the story: “…so I was driving down the road when this Chinaman came at me in his Civic. I had to get out of the way, and that’s when the truck flipped.”
I thought it was obvious that this drunk driver was much more intoxicated than he was admitting to, and I was a bit relieved when a female officer began to ask for either a blood test or a breathalyser to determine his blood alcohol content. The drunken young man danced around the subject, not only pretending he was going to call a lawyer, but also by attempting to flirt with the female officer.
“Your name is beautiful,” I could hear is overly obnoxious voice holler. “SA-MAR-A…I’m going to name my next daughter after you…you are beautiful…do you thin k I should call a lawyer, beautiful Samara?”
The officer was explaining his rights, but the guy wasn’t listening.
“You can call a lawyer to at least consult about your situation,” said officer Samara. “But if you don’t do the test you will be charged with refusal. I’d at least call a lawyer to discuss this with, Tom.”
So that was his name: Tom—the bane of my slumber. Tom was a loud, racist wreck who I secretly declared emergency room warfare on—if Tom didn’t shut up, I was going to strangle him with my tubes.
For the next hour, Tom shouted and yelled, sometimes in mock pain, and sometimes with declarations of love for officer Samara. The hospital staff seemed indifferent to his shouting, probably accustomed to unruly idiots being wheeled through their doors.
But, despite my situation and current position, I was not going to take this laying down, so to speak. When Tom continued to yell out, his voice disrupting my sleep and all those around him, I said something.
“Why won’t you guys unstrap me,” Tom was shrieking.
“Because no one cares about you, Tom.” I spat his name off my tongue like it was a squirming mosquito that had accidentally flew through my lips.
Tom shut up for a bit—but, he was soon back to his vocal self, yelling to his friend in another bed. He was claiming that his friend could sue him, and they would just take ICBC’s money. The officers seemed to have given up their requests for his blood and abandoned the situation. I sat there seething, hoping that Tom was now horribly scarred from his accident, or perhaps would never walk again. And that’s when Tom pulled back the curtain, and I saw his unhurt, very young face.
“Oh, hi,” said Tom. “Sorry I’m so loud.”
I looked at him straight in the eye.
“I hate you, Tom.” I said, not believing his apology. “You are the most disgusting, rude and obnoxious person I’ve ever met. You have been yelling for an hour now, and you have been disturbing not only myself but everyone else in this ward, including many older patients. SO. SHUT. UP.”
He attempted to apologize again as I turned my back to him in my bed, but his voice trailed off and the curtain swished shut. I felt a little better after telling off Tom, but victory would not come until he either left…or died!
And unfortunately, Tom was fine. He ended up walking out of the hospital himself, which I found to be the more disappointing of my two victory choices—but at least he was gone, and sleep took his place in the hospital.
Drunk drivers are idiots, whether on or off the road.
So, when, at 3 a.m., there was a great commotion outside of the curtains surrounding my bed, I knew that peaceful rest would still be a long time coming; however, I was not prepared for the ridiculous uproar that erupted only seconds later.
A gurney was rolled in carrying a man strapped to a board with a support collar around his neck. He was followed by a troop of uniformed officers; whether they were RCMP or Police officers, I could not see through the space in the drapes, but I could hear their discussions clearly.
They spoke of a drunk driver who had swerved to miss an oncoming vehicle and had rolled his truck over, possibly down a ravine. The driver and front passenger had been wearing seatbelts, but had still been thrown around the overturned truck.
Thinking that the male that had been pushed to the bed beside me was an innocent party in all of this, I felt initial sympathy for him. I may have been in pain, but this poor guy had been injured horrifically in a car accident by a drunk driver.
But, then I heard this: “Well,” the guy was telling the officers, “I only had six or seven beers before I started to drive home.”
So he was the driver, I realized, which explained the gaggle of law enforcement accompanying him. My sympathy melted to disgust, and then even my disgust managed to deteriorate to something beyond abhorrence.
The guy was explaining his side of the story: “…so I was driving down the road when this Chinaman came at me in his Civic. I had to get out of the way, and that’s when the truck flipped.”
I thought it was obvious that this drunk driver was much more intoxicated than he was admitting to, and I was a bit relieved when a female officer began to ask for either a blood test or a breathalyser to determine his blood alcohol content. The drunken young man danced around the subject, not only pretending he was going to call a lawyer, but also by attempting to flirt with the female officer.
“Your name is beautiful,” I could hear is overly obnoxious voice holler. “SA-MAR-A…I’m going to name my next daughter after you…you are beautiful…do you thin k I should call a lawyer, beautiful Samara?”
The officer was explaining his rights, but the guy wasn’t listening.
“You can call a lawyer to at least consult about your situation,” said officer Samara. “But if you don’t do the test you will be charged with refusal. I’d at least call a lawyer to discuss this with, Tom.”
So that was his name: Tom—the bane of my slumber. Tom was a loud, racist wreck who I secretly declared emergency room warfare on—if Tom didn’t shut up, I was going to strangle him with my tubes.
For the next hour, Tom shouted and yelled, sometimes in mock pain, and sometimes with declarations of love for officer Samara. The hospital staff seemed indifferent to his shouting, probably accustomed to unruly idiots being wheeled through their doors.
But, despite my situation and current position, I was not going to take this laying down, so to speak. When Tom continued to yell out, his voice disrupting my sleep and all those around him, I said something.
“Why won’t you guys unstrap me,” Tom was shrieking.
“Because no one cares about you, Tom.” I spat his name off my tongue like it was a squirming mosquito that had accidentally flew through my lips.
Tom shut up for a bit—but, he was soon back to his vocal self, yelling to his friend in another bed. He was claiming that his friend could sue him, and they would just take ICBC’s money. The officers seemed to have given up their requests for his blood and abandoned the situation. I sat there seething, hoping that Tom was now horribly scarred from his accident, or perhaps would never walk again. And that’s when Tom pulled back the curtain, and I saw his unhurt, very young face.
“Oh, hi,” said Tom. “Sorry I’m so loud.”
I looked at him straight in the eye.
“I hate you, Tom.” I said, not believing his apology. “You are the most disgusting, rude and obnoxious person I’ve ever met. You have been yelling for an hour now, and you have been disturbing not only myself but everyone else in this ward, including many older patients. SO. SHUT. UP.”
He attempted to apologize again as I turned my back to him in my bed, but his voice trailed off and the curtain swished shut. I felt a little better after telling off Tom, but victory would not come until he either left…or died!
And unfortunately, Tom was fine. He ended up walking out of the hospital himself, which I found to be the more disappointing of my two victory choices—but at least he was gone, and sleep took his place in the hospital.
Drunk drivers are idiots, whether on or off the road.
No comments:
Post a Comment