Yawning . . . Bleeding . . . Waiting

Interesting how we find ourselves reacting to the unexpected and how often a startling occurence can make us temporarily senseless.  I say this because last night was one of those nights.  I was lazily watching television and sipping ice water, laptop and cell phone nearby since even tired and blurry, I need to have my finger on the “pulse” of cyberspace.  Lol  Sadly, it is during those times that my ability to type and worse yet my ability to proofread my efforts suffers greatly.  Oh, dear.  “Oh, bother” as Pooh would say.   So, when the phone rang I jumped.  Literally.  A dear friend called to say he’d injured himself and thought a trip to the emergency room was called for.  As I drove down familiar streets I realized that my tax rate is lower here than where I used to live because they DO NOT HAVE NEARLY ENOUGH STREET LIGHTS.  Not only that, but THEY RARELY CONSTRUCT ROADS WITH SIDEWALKS, and worse yet THEY ALL HAVE CURVES AND TWISTS.  Okay, the curves are meant to slow us down as we drive through the neighborhoods, but lights would be helpful, particularly since our pretty neighborhood doesn’t have sidewalks . . . I don’t drive at night too often.  The economy, both the nation’s and my own, requires close watching of expenditures so being home at night is recommended over being a party girl about town.  I thought of all this as I drove down streets which just hours before seemed beautiful, bright, and beckoning.  All this came rushing to my mind as the friend inches away from me said “oh, crap” and realized he was REALLY bleeding at that moment.  We got to  the ER.  We waited a long time, then he was taken to be stitched and I waited and waited and watched.  Interesting how folks handle waiting in ER waiting rooms.  One or two go off alone and hold tattered newspapers without reading them and jump every time they hear footsteps.  Most others sit close to the strangers around them, make occasional small talk, giggle over nothing in particular, and take some relief in the presence of other humans playing the same waiting game.  There are also a few who’ve made this late night trip and played this waiting game so often that they just get comfortable in plastic chairs, sip coffee brewed hours ago from foam cups, and have their own books and such from home to read knowing the “routine” entirely too well.  “I’ll be fine” my friend said, with a bandage much larger than the cut that was just stitched.  Smiling and tired, his pain shot hadn’t worn off yet and I hoped he’d be asleep before it did.  Minutes later he was home and so was I.  This morning those same streets are well-lit with the late summer sunshine and the dark skies are now an amazing shade of blue.  I’m sipping coffee once again but it’s freshly brewed.  My “good sense” or what passes for it has been restored.   The wound will heal.  Life is good.