It was 4:15pm. I called down to our doorman Joseph to see if he could hail us a cab. Five minutes later when we made it down to the lobby Joseph was still out there trying. Perplexed because we normally get cabs in less than 10 seconds, we stood for another 5 minutes with all our hands raised hoping for our yellow chariot. Picture this scene: Felicia, 6’ stunning African American woman, Ryan, 6’2” strapping Princeton grad, Arlene with Jaden, all waving at cabs, and me holding my bleeding daughter almost in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Manhattan with dozens of empty taxis speeding right by us.
“There is a time to kill and a time to heal.” Ecclesiastes 3:3
ARE THEY IGNORING US? IS THIS THE TWILIGHT ZONE? WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
We learned later that all the cabbies in New York City switch shifts between 4 and 5 and typically won’t pick anybody up during that time.
Without many options we saw the M11 come creeping up tenth. Arlene & I looked at each other and telepathically agreed, “I guess we’re about to take the slow bus up to the Emergency Room.”
The M11, like our fave M42, is a typical New York bus packed to the hilt with humans of the most intriguing kind. From the angry to the affectionate, the nice to the nasty these natives are mostly regular riders, fearless and determined to make and mark their way. They are seldom unwilling to engage in conversation but not so much when it comes to giving up their seat. Oh, the sacred city seat! Subway seats, bus seats, rail seats, seats of any kind are a New Yorker’s inner-most desire. Some cush for the tush after a hard-day’s day (or night) is a most enviable position.
Now, there are rules for these sort of things; you must give up your seat for the elderly, the handicapped and some other special cases, like BLEEDING CHILDREN ON THEIR WAY TO THE ER. However, as with any other rule, there’s no fun in them if they’re not regularly being broken. So there I was again, arms full with my broken little girl, standing at the mercy of the seated. After 3 stops and some enlightening conversation, a young woman did offer her beloved, right-angled plastic masterpiece of machinery. We gladly accepted.
By this time, Thalia’s wailing had died down. With so much stimulation, how can a six year old stay focused on the pain?!
We arrived at the hospital mostly whole and still hopeful. Another hour and a half pass, Jaden getting antsy and nerves a little raw. It’s a fascinating stage: a small room, a blaring flat screen, a security guard, 20-30 injured waiting bloody & anxious and 1 nurse. Is there something I’m missing? Perhaps the word “Emergency” should be stricken from the record. Words like urgent, fast or now come to mind as I consider what Emergency means to me. No sentiments of that sort lingered here. In fact, antonyms like slow, relaxed, apathetic, neutral, mellow and aloof were much more prevalent. This was no Emergency Room, this was a lounge where people come to wait and watch the latest supreme court nominee grilling session.
Another perplexing observation. The following tasks are assigned to the 1 nurse who sits in a glass box: give people direction when they first enter the room, sign people in, explain the form & stamping procedure for the form, take insurance information, assess the injured, take blood pressure and temperature, fill out the computer info packet on each individual, create ID wrist bracelets, pass along the info to the doctors, print invoice and then call in the next patient. Of course, she is seemingly unfazed by the fact that the sound of her voice is severely muffled by the glass box she sits in when she calls out those names....so 5 or 6 people usually stand and come up to clarify who exactly is being called each time.
The security guard does nothing.
We did make it into Roosevelt’s inner sanctum, the holiest of holies. Here they provide a room for you and your family, complete with bed and comfy chairs. It is quiet and peaceful and a very hip doctor who knows about iPhones and the latest World Cup scores attends to your every need. Another nurse comes in between the doctor visits and offers you comforting words, smiles, engages the children and offers blankets, coffee, champagne and caviar. Ok, not the caviar...but you get the idea.
Thalia got 4 stitches and we caught a cab home; it was almost 9.
Hindsight was all gratitude. We realized that we’re now knowledgable of the terrain if we further encounter any ER-type situations. We’re prepared with new information about private cars and ambulance availability. God gave us a practice run. Thalia is doing great & will get the stitches out next week. We’re so proud of how brave she handled herself, happy heals are healing and that we’re all mended and moving on.
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