I think we can all agree that hospital emergency rooms are nothing to joke about. Well, almost. If, like me, you live with any kind of injury to your brain (my brain injury was a result of getting shot in 1984),  your sense of humor can have a field day.  A reporter asked me once if the injury had any effect on me, so I just repeated, “Not at all, not at all, not at all,” twitching my head to the left each time.  Before she could write it down, I let her know I was joking.

         Now, to the ER, and some mischief. Some years ago, I was working in a program for individuals with injuries like mine, when I began to notice times when the entire left side of my body would tingle, the same tingle you feel when your arm falls asleep.  So, I went to the emergency room at Albany Medical Center in Albany, New York, with a friend and colleague of mine named Chris. I brought a paperback book with me so if I was admitted, I’d have the sanctuary of reading to run too.

         When the triage team was told of the symptoms and the injury (the bullet remains lodged in the brain), we didn’t have to wait. A nurse took us into an exam room and returned to the ER’s triage.  The exam room was essentially a curtained off area with a stretcher and the hard-plastic chairs. In this case, the back of the stretcher was raised so if I got on, I’d be sitting up, which is exactly what made mischief come to mind. 

         I looked at Chris, and said, “Let’s have some fun.” Then, I took my paperback (I can’t remember what I was reading at the time) and placed it on the stretcher, the back of the book against the raised back of the stretcher, the cover facing out.  A moment later, a young woman with the nursing staff came in with a clipboard to ask questions. Chris and I were sitting side by side in the chairs, the book was, well, sitting on the stretcher. The nurse, as you’ll see, was as good as it gets. Unflappable and then some.

         She asked: “Who’s the patient?”

         I pointed at the book and said, “He is.”

         She barely paused, “I need his name.”

         I looked at the book and said, “She wants to know your name.” I paused, then looked at the nurse. “He says he hardly knows you.”

         “Please explain to him that if I don’t know his name, we can’t help him.”

         So, the entire interview of the book took place with me as translator.

         Once she had all she needed, she smiled, looked at the book and said, “The doctor will be right with you.”

         To sum up. They weren’t able to identify what was causing the tingling, and it stopped a day or so later and never returned. That said, and setting ER mischief aside, here’s to those who work in the ERs. They saved my life once and have put up with me ever since.