What he didn't expect was the blood.
I was lying in the backseat of the car against Marla, and my arm caught either on her purse or the seriously hardcore zipper of my adorable jacket-thing. I sat up somewhere between Nowheresville USA and Atlanta.
"Oh my God," Marla said. "Your arm is bleeding."
"Oh that's just norm--nope, not normal at all."
I had totally gashed my arm open. (For the record? NOTHING in the universe is more sobering). I definitely knew I needed to go to the ER. But having never lived in Atlanta past the age of 21 and always going to the children's hospital meant I had no idea where to go.
I decided to call the doctor I'd gotten close to over my years there. But my phone, as you may recall, resembled a doorstop more than an iPhone at the moment. I had to call my mother.
I always plan to make this cal after I'm done with the ER, safe and sound. It never works this way.
"Mom, I gashed my arm open. Can you hack into my contacts and get Dr. S's cell?"
"All you have is his work number. I have his cell."
NB: she only met the man once. I spent a semester seeing him almost every morning. Why she had his cell and I didn't remains one of the mysteries of life.
My doctor's first question? "Chelsey, was there drinking involved?"
"Okay, but see, here's the thing: i didn't fall! I didn't do anything!"
Which is, actually, depressingly true.
Dr. S directed me to Northside Hospital. We got there after stopping by Sonya's apartment for her to put on jeans and me to get a new contact (mine had OF COURSE fallen out)
In the ER I gave my connective-tissue-disorder-bruise-and-tear-easily spiel to a nurse who said, brilliantly, "Wow! You must have to be very careful!"
Thanks. That made me feel so much better about the gash in my arm.
Then she leaned in and squinted at my nose. "If you tear easily, why get a piercing?"
I said something like, "Oh, it didn't tear," and she disappeared.
A very nice med student took care of me and I received 24 stitches as my wedding party favor.