Rate Your Pain

Why is it that EMTs and nurses all have to ask: "how is your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?" That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Who rates their own pain? Oh, I stubbed my toe, feels like a five... Oh, papercut, feels more like a three and a half, but could be a four, haven't quite decided. I remember finally getting to the hospital after being in labor for 25 hours already and the nurse asked the abominous question. I don't know about you, but when those contractions hit you can't think, let alone RATE YOUR PAIN! Anyway, it felt more like a five or six, no, maybe a seven.

Then I figured, hey, I made it this far all by my lonesome- to hell with you nurses and your drugs! I didn't rate my pain for the last 25 hours and I was JUST FINE! Oh boy, here's another contraction...five, six, nope, this one's an eight- holy hell, maybe an eleven- oh no, that's not on the scale! I've come of the scale!!!! What do I do now?!?!? Most importantly, what is the nurse going to do with ELEVEN?!?!?

So when I recently broke my right foot, said EMT asks me the dreaded question and I was that deer in the headlights, moments from being pummeled over the hood of the oncoming Jetta. I completely forgot to rate my pain! How could I be so stupid? What would they do or say if I didn't come up with something...quick??!!? I thought about it quickly and came up with "it feels like a five," right down the middle, not too weak, but not excrutiating either. Phew! That should keep Mr. Hunk, I mean Mr. EMT, away for a bit.

I regretted that "Five" when I found myself waiting in the ER for over an hour and no help in sight. Meanwhile, I was stuck sitting next to a guy who was screaming obscenities (yes, screaming) every few minutes and clutching his head like the voices inside were telling him to do really bad things now, and if he did not comply, he would be repeatedly head-clobbered. To the other side of me, or really down a few seats but it didn't smell that way, was the sad homeless man, who you could tell was a regular with a myriad of ailments, some true, some false, if only it could get him a few minutes on a nice hospital bed and maybe a shower.

So between Screaming-Voices-in-his-Head boy and the homeless, I regretted that Five- maybe if I had just said a Six or an Eight, maybe, just maybe, they'd let me in sooner. If only my parents had taught me to rate my pain, or maybe it was the biology class in college I didn't take that would have shown me the secrets to rating pain. I do wonder whatever was wrong with Screaming-Voices-in-his-Head boy...

Apparently, I had not rated my pain enough to get in faster and decided to make a run for it... yes, me and BRF (broken right foot) split from the hospital. We ran free and fast (well, in my mind we did and with a little help from the Hubbs), right into the arms of my podiatrist we'll call Dr. Dorky. Dr. Dorky quickly casted me up, told me to stay home for 8 weeks and, can you believe?, didn't even ask me to rate my pain. how 'bout that?