OUR LADY TRIPSALOT OF THE BRUISES

OUR LADY TRIPSALOT OF THE BRUISES                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       The screen flashed 9-1-1.                                                                                

         In reaction, the woman smoothed her wrinkled black and blue uniform as she slowly rose from the chair with a groan. Without looking she fumbled for her cane. It was not to be a quiet night shift after all at Our Lady Tripsalot Of The Bruises. She tried not to speculate as she clomped down the hall; she'd seen and treated it all. A blinking message from a monitor was no more urgent than the shrieking of a telephone or the pounding on a door; all meant an emergency.                                                  

         She was grateful for the steadying influence of the cane. More than supporting her aching frame it reminded her to concentrate and not hurry for the sake of hurrying. Sage phrases from her youth sprang to mind. Haste makes waste. No hurry, no worry. Many times she'd reacted too quickly; her feet waiting for her brain to catch up. This was why she was known as Sister Contusion. She'd earned her name with stumbles of her own.                                                                                          

         Thinking of her unique name caused Sister Contusion to chuckle. Some had referred to her as Sister Confusion. If this occurred enough times during an assessment of a patient, despite her corrections, then it became an important diagnostic tool. The patient was probably disoriented and likely suffering from a head injury.                                                                                          

         Sighing, she surrendered to speculation; she was only human and this walk to the treatment room seemed to stretch further and further every trip. What manner of emergency needed her attention? People never failed to surprise her or more accurately their 'surprise' never got stale. Every victim was shocked, stunned, or stupefied. They all claimed to have never seen 'it' coming. Each retelling of an incident was tinged with a 'why me?' amazement.                                                                      

         The young woman with a pair of scissors buried in her thigh had the following to share. " I was only trying to cut my denim jeans into shorts. I didn't think the scissors were that sharp. To save time, I was wearing the jeans and I only needed a few snips. One minute I was holding the scissors and the next they were stuck in my leg. It just happened so quickly!"                                                                      

         An older lady with a knee and shoulder injury couldn't seem to accept her ' bad luck'. " A light bulb in the ceiling had blown. It was no big deal. The stepladder was behind some stuff in the closet and moving it would have been too much of a bother. There was already a kitchen chair handy. Standing on the chair the first time, I couldn't quite reach, so I grabbed a pillow from the couch. I'm not sure if I even stood up before I slipped and fell hard. I don't know where the new light bulb landed."                              

         Sister Contusion remembered the young mother who had borrowed her child's bicycle with disastrous results. " I was just going to the store down the street; I ran out of milk. I hopped on my kid's bike. I thought it would be quicker than walking; zip in, zip out. I'm an adult I didn't need to wear a helmet for such a short ride. I don't know where that grate came from or why the bike tire got stuck in it, but, boy, did I fly."                                                                                                              

         People had this in common; they were always in a hurry. There wasn't nearly enough preparation for their perspiration; aforethought before aftershock. Sister Contusion accepted this truth in her stride. She was in the business of abrasions, contusions, fractures, and burns.                              

         Stepping at last through the doors and into pandemonium, Sister Contusion was greeted by the sight of several dishevelled women in roller skates. Stained and torn shirts bore provocative names such as, Bone Crusher, Legal Eagle, Betty Boom, Tough Cookie, and Broken Heart. She grinned as she recognized that her shift had just welcomed roller derby casualties. The stories were bound to be spellbinding and perfect for Our Lady Tripsalot Of The Bruises. Every accident survivor departed with a reputation as a bruiser and these ladies would not be the exception.
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