We Visit the ER
Lately, when getting changed for bed, I've been noticing that sometimes I accidentally wear my underwear inside out for the entire day. Recent experiences, thusly, should be framed in that context.
Upon noticing that one of the windows in the living room had fallen down a bit (we have the old kind of windows with two moving panes) I tried to push it back into place. It had other ideas, stayed put, and my hand pushed right through the glass. It's kind of inevitable that architecture students cut their hands up, but most do it in the studio while working on a model. This is like getting the Purple Heart for snagging my leg on some barb wire.
Three hours later and I've returned from the hospital with three monofiliment stitches in smart black thread on the outside edge of my left hand. Not having a television, I can't say that I am familiar with ER and have never understood why people get so excited about it. Frankly, I thought hospitals are a little freaky. Having been into the belly of the bullet-proofed beast (you'd think Rhode Island Hospital was in Compton), I now have a better understanding of what makes the innards of hospitals so interesting. The nonchalance of the people working in that environment is refined to the point that it almost doesn't seem odd. "Do you need something? Are you going to bleed yourself to death?" The emergency room would have made Henery Ford proud. One person checks you in, one takes insurance info, one tags you, and one preps you. This is before the doctor descends for his two minute consultation, "I'll be back to stitch you up... I have to see someone with a toothache." He returns with a sealed packed containing everything needed to stitch small to medium sized lacerations. The package was prepared so thoroughly that it almost could have simply been handed to me with instructions-- a sort of DIY suture kit.
With one of three hours spent in the inner sanctum of "District 4" I became acquainted with the medical aesthetic of the emergency room, a visual style that would bring Hirst and his pharmacutical fascination to his knees. Whereas the pharmacy is dominated by dense blocks of warning text imposed on a public able to make very little sense from it all, emergency room packaging is designed, on one hand, for people who know what it all means and on the other hand to not scare the people who don't and are likely to be a little anxious already anyway. The designs were text heavy, but executed in muted colors. Important notes like sterility information and contents listings are carefully boxed with the analog equivalent of k10k-esque single pixel lines. Everything is done out in white, gray, and pastels but still retains the informative edge of their pharmacutical siblings.
Later, our debonair doc chats in the hallway with his fellow medical professionals and eats a machine-dispensed sandwich with charm as I depart. Now almost 7:00pm, the lobby is filled with crying children and people crying; the check in line is backed up to the door. In contrast to the pristine world of emergency room-chic, this scene reveals American healthcare's flailing nature. I worry for those who don't have health care.
--Posted 02/14/02 04:09AM