Sunday in the ER With Joyce

It was one of those spectacular days that tell you that winter is finally over – clear blue sky, bright sun, temperatures in the realm of the truly warm, rather than the merely not cold, and air lightly perfumed with the first "green" scents. People were out and about, and sidewalk cafés were sprouting like spring buds out of the concrete. And it was Sunday.

I watched it all through a picture window from my seat in the ER waiting room.

I'm a nurse, but thanks to a healthy constitution, an active lifestyle, and a career change, I haven't spent time in a hospital in many years. What's more, I can't recall having visited an ER – except during my nursing training – before today.

I was the architect of my own misfortune. It was my nephew's 16th birthday, and his mother, my sister, had reserved an ice arena for his party, which included a friends-and-family hockey game. Despite lacking coordination, having skated only twice in the past two decades, and having age 60 in my rearview mirror, I felt that I was capable of playing hockey with a group of teenaged boys – boys who had been playing hockey ever since they could walk. No, I don't know what I was thinking, but as my seven-year-old granddaughter reproachfully opined to anyone who would listen, "Grandma's so competitive!"

So there I was in the ER, with a broken wrist, which I was concerned might need surgical repair, waiting my turn.

Since it was such a beautiful day, the ER was packed. And since I wasn't bleeding or arresting, I had to wait. And wait. And wait. What does one do in such a situation? After reading the local paper and The New York Times cover-to-cover, one people-watches. And, aside from the beach or public transit, is there a better place to people-watch than in an ER?

Numerous different paramedics came and went with their stretchers laden with people. Of course, you speculate about what's wrong with them – particularly why the healthy-looking, alert, seemingly pain-free, well-dressed, very attractive, 40ish man was brought in on a stretcher. (Is he an excellent actor, a psych patient, or a VIP who was put on the stretcher as a ruse to get him into the examining area without the usual four- or five-hour wait?)

The elderly – pale, on oxygen, and wrapped in blankets – didn't require much speculation, except whether or not they might be contagious and whether you should move to a seat a little further along. I did wonder what was wrong with one elderly lady, brought in by her son and daughter-in-law. She seemed to be in some distress, but no one (including her relatives) paid much attention to her until she fell off her chair and was immediately taken into the examining area. (Maybe that's the trick to getting in more quickly?)

The cavalcade of humanity included a drunken man, whom several nurses tried unsuccessfully to have sit down before a burly, no-nonsense nurse got the job done. He sat, then began throwing his money on the floor. The bills and coins were retrieved, examined, and obligingly returned by a friendly little girl with Down syndrome. This game continued for quite some time. (Were it not for the child, I'm sure he would've later found himself sober and unaccountably broke.)

Several times during my stay, nurses called the security guard, who was nowhere to be found. Each time he was outside in the sun, chatting up a pretty, young paramedic who was taking advantage of her coffee break to bask in the spring sunshine.

Eventually I saw a doctor, who not only was less censorious than my granddaughter, but who also successfully pulled my fractures back into place. Despite initial concerns, I didn't need surgery on my broken wrist.

Maybe it's just the narcotics they gave me for pain talking, but I believe that spending six hours in an ER on a sunny Sunday isn't that bad at all!

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