The road to health and vigor is fraught with danger and excitement. As many of you may know, I was injured in a one vehicle rollover in the middle of the night in mid-June in Nevada. I was examined by a very handsome doctor in the hospital in Elko. He did a CAT scan and determined that nothing major was broken. He did comment that my blood pressure was elevated. Well, every time I looked at Dr. Adonis’ perfectly proportioned, firm, rounded tushie — that you could bounce a coin off — wiggling around in his “come hither” tight pants, and his gym-worthy biceps protruding his rather formfitting black scrubs, of course my blood pressure would rise. Every time he touched me, I nearly stroked out.
I was relieved when Dr. Adonis said he would release me from the hospital but I was also heartbroken I would not be under his care any longer. He did, however, give me morphine as a consolation prize. Side note: I have always feared being in a wreck while wearing my blinking breasticles. For this reason I can often be found getting nearly naked in the Club Try-Angles parking lot prior to driving home.
I was experiencing massive pain in my chest from being compressed by the shoulder belt, so much so I could not take a full breath or move by myself. At six on Sunday morning, I called Mr. Pap Smear, disturbing his beauty sleep. In the sweetest, most pitifully vulnerable voice I could muster, I asked “Honey, could you please drive to Elko and pick me up?” I was sure to pause and cough at least three times for dramatic effect.
Of course there was a four-hour wait until my spousal unit would arrive. I was left to languish there alone in the curtained-off section of the emergency room without fresh eyeliner and lipstick, and chipped nails — as God as my witness, I had chipped nails. I struggled between losing consciousness and catching glimpses of Dr. Adonis as he went about his other duties.
Finally Mr. Pap Smear arrived and with the help of three nurses, was able to move my spasming bulkitude to the car. The four-hour ride home seemed to take at least 24. Every single little bump in the road was nearly like a death sentence. I swear that it even hurt my chest when a bug splattered on the windshield. Mr. Pap Smear, after getting me home, poured me into the recliner, which was destined to become my home for the next few weeks.
On Monday I went to see a local doctor. After closer examination he explained that I probably had damaged disks in my neck and he spoke the two most dreaded words in the English language. “Physical therapy.” With much trepidation, I slowly entered the physical therapy room. I noticed in a quick cursory glance the many varied torturous machines crowding the place. My apprehension was greatly relieved when I was introduced to my therapist, Cade from Texas. What can I say, he was gorgeous. He had a gymnast’s build and spoke with the cutest Southern drawl. And then we began.
First he connected me to an electroshock device that is supposed to relax the injured muscles. But as a veteran of Church-sponsored electroshock aversion therapy to change sexual orientation, it only brought on a case of deeply buried posttraumatic stress disorder. We continued moving from one torturous machine to another.
With each new agony I would loudly exclaim increasing pain. I even tried to flirt my way to freedom with him by batting my eyelashes, but bless Cade’s stunningly handsome heart, he was having none of it. Finally, he put me on THE RACK, or in other words, put me on a traction machine where he bound my head up in a noose and then tried to pull it off my shoulders. After several horrendous sessions like this, I was re-evaluated by the doctor and he ordered a kinder gentler therapy regime.
Now, it ended up after a few not terrible stretching exercises that Cade took my head in his hands and placed the top of it directly against his rock-hard abs and gave my neck a 20-minute massage, all the while telling me stories of Texas in his cute southern accent. OMG … I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
I explained to Cade that I was going to have an MRI and that I was extremely claustrophobic and was nervous about the oppressively suffocating closeness of the machine. He told me of his cave-spelunking exploits where he squirmed along with only a half inch of space to spare for about one hundred yards before he reached safety. Damn him, even after two Valium, all I could envision while being sucked into the infernal machine was being in a cave with a half inch of air. Talk about a blood pressure spike!
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
- Should beautiful medical professionals include a handsomeness handicap on the blood pressure readings?
- If I had been wearing breasticles would they have impaled both my lungs or would they have broken through the windshield giving me an escape route?
- If I had been wearing breasticles would I have been top heavy enough to send the truck tumbling off the cliff?
- Would the lighted breasticles have been of sufficient brightness to enable the air-rescue helicopter to land?
- Should I get a new job directing nighttime landings at the airport?
- Are all physical therapists trained in the Marquis de Sade School of Torture?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.