There is, in the inevitable succession of those two statements, some support for a deterministic view of the universe.
Technically I didn't build the treehouse. I took the easy way out: I put a house in a tree. See?
Climber, my seven-year-old son, is not known for taking the easy way out. Let's say, for example, that he needed to get down from said treehouse. One option would be to use the ladder. But using ladders does not earn one the name Climber.
I was grading our future driveway with the tractor when my five year old daughter, Speed Pony, ran over to me and told me that Climber fell and hurt himself. I found Climber lying in the dirt under the tree, crying. His elbow looked strangely flat, as if his forearm had been pulled out of the joint. We hopped in the car and sped to the emergency room, where we then proceeded to wait for an hour while climber moaned and cried, his forearm hanging in a sweatshirt I had tied around his neck.
It's a surreal experience, and wholly incomprehensible to a seven-year-old, to sit in a waiting room with a dislocated elbow while medical professionals meander about on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee, doing paperwork and performing other tasks that could probably wait until after all of your limbs are properly attached. I glanced around the busy waiting room, trying to locate anyone with a condition remotely as severe as Climber's. A big black guy wandered in, having hit his head. "It really hurts," he told the woman behind the desk. There was a kid in soccer getup lying on his side across two chairs. There was an overweight woman who had been wheeled in by an EMT. "Here are your medicines," the EMT said, handing her a plastic grocery bag filled with prescription bottles. A few minutes later I saw her smoking outside, and wondered if the cigarettes had been in the bag. I supposed that if it weren't for the cigarettes, the bag would have been a lot lighter.
Finally we made it in, having been deemed worthy of "prompt care." I can only imagine the kind of dilatory care that was reserved for the "It really hurts" guy. A nurse asked us insanely irrelevant questions and made Climber stand on a scale, presumably to see whether a broken arm weighs more than a regular arm. Then we waited some more.
While we were waiting, I had some time to think, which is never a good thing. It occurred to me that an emergency room is like the Bizarro universe version of a car dealership. I know, I'm insane, but stick with me. First, an emergency room is staffed with highly educated professionals who actively ignore you, whereas a car dealership is staffed with high school dropouts who eye-rape you as you step onto the lot. Second, the goal of the car dealership is to sell you something that you don't need and can't afford, right now, before you've had a minute to reconsider your decision, whereas the goal of the emergency room is to make you wait for six hours so you can think about whether it's really worth it to fork over a $50 copay to have a limb reattached. Third, the clientele of a car dealership tends to be made up of yuppies and wealthy retirees, whereas... well, the emergency room's isn't.
But what prompted this comparison was the realization that the doctors and nurses didn't seem to notice that I existed. Every comment and question was directed to my wife, as if I were just an unnecessary appendage dangling by a bit of cartilage. "Is he on any medications?" "How far did he fall?" "Has he had any other injuries?" I had the answers to all these questions too, but their gazes flitted between my wife and my son. I felt like raising my hand. "Me! Pick me! I know this one!" Throw me a bone here, people.
My opportunity to get my participation grade came when Mrs. Diesel left momentarily to take Speed Pony to the bathroom. A nurse began to ask me some questions, and I thought I did an admirable job of demonstrating that I was an involved parent who was only indirectly responsible for his son's deformed elbow. But I got the sense she was asking me easy questions, like you do when you're waiting for a preschooler's mommy to show up. "How old are you?" "Do you like trains?" "When did your mommy say she was going to be back?" And sure enough, as soon as Mrs. Diesel returned, I was once again banished to the realm of child beaters and vestigial appendages. "Were there any men in the vicinity who could have yanked the arm right out of the socket at the time of the injury?" they asked my wife, who nodded knowingly. I went to get some coffee.
I took Speed Pony to Grandma's, and by the time I got back, Climber's arm was in a sling and he was coming out of sedation. "I was sleeping," he complained through a drug-induced haze as the nurses poked and prodded at him. When they finally left him alone, he told us that he had been dreaming about some third graders who were pushing him around. 
Apparently they had popped his arm back into place (that would give me nightmares about bullying third graders too!), and all was well except for a chip of bone that had broken off the tip of his elbow. This required an MRI, and depending on the outcome of that, may require surgery. I'm very nearly 37 years old and I've never had an MRI or surgery. I've never even broken a bone. I feel like I've been cheated out of some defining experiences in my life, and I'm not just saying that because my seven year old has tried morphine and I never even got drunk on Natural Light until I was 17.
Anyway, Climber is now wearing a cast and in no apparent pain. We'll see in the next few days what additional treatment, if any, he needs. The other day I caught him trying to climb up to the treehouse, so I guess it's safe to say he's not experiencing any serious psychological trauma.
You can always count on prompt care at humor-blogs.com.
Labels: Anecdotes, Exemplary Police Work, Family
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