News, Views, and Shmooze....

Goring Out of My Mind

As a mystery writer, I'm a big fan of police procedurals and related programs: The Law & Order fanchise (I like SVU the best). The Mentalist. Medium. Monk. Bones (Last season's finale was a cheat--Temperance and Seeley kissing, but only in his coma-induced delusion--but I hear we'll get the real deal this season).

I'm also a fan of Criminal Minds, although I wish that, once in a while, Thomas Gibson would lose his ever grim expression (hard to believe he was the male lead in the sitcom Dharma and Greg). Nuance, please. And too often I feel there's something slick and a little artificial in the crisp way the main characters disseminate data, in rotation, about the "unsub" (unnamed suspect) they're hunting. But I'm quibbling.

Post CSI, audiences have come to expect in-your-face grittiness, and it seems that everyone is upping the gore factor.  Even Monk has increased the violence, surprising for a program that is more of a comedy and character study.  (I'm sorry that this is its final season but am intrigued by promos that tell us we'll finally learn, with Monk, who killed his wife Trudy.) So I know I'm in for brutal scenes in Criminal Minds, a show about FBI profilers of serial killers.

But...

The last episode I saw, "Hopeless," disturbed me. We're watching a pack of ruthless, sadistic killers who are watching, on a laptop, the videotape one of the killers took of the gleeful carnage they inflicted on four innocent, helpless people. We see the vicious blows again and again. And again. We are voyeurs, repulsed and frightened by what we are seeing. We can turn the channel, but we don't. (I did shut my eyes.)

"Why are you doing this?" one of the female victims cries after her husband has been bludgeoned to death.

"Why not?" is the droll answer.

In later scenes, with other victims, the camera fades to black, and the horrors are left to our imaginations. Why not with this opening scene? Why did we have to be shown the brutal attack, frame by frame? And why repeatedly?

I suppose the answer may be, "Why not?"

Or, to ensure ratings survival, are programs determined to out-gore the competitors? Audience share is the Holy Grail. Audiences want gritter, gorier, bloodier.

Right?

Maybe it is "hopeless."

Saturday Night in the ER

Saturday night, following my doctor's orders, my husband took me to the Cedars ER to get an ultrasound study of my left leg, which had turned purple and blue overnight. My doctor wanted to make sure I wasn't harboring  a blood clot.

We arrived at the ER at a quarter to eight. Stepping into the vestibule, we were greeted by a gracious volunteer named Kimber. The lobby was more than half filled with people--some standing, some sitting, many wearing masks that covered their mouths and noses. To protect them against swine flu, Kimber explained when I asked.

 

"Do you think we need masks?" I asked.

 

She smiled. "I don't. But you can get some, if you're worried."

 

I decided I wasn't. 

 

My husband and I found seats in the lobby. We had come prepared for a long wait (Cedars' ER, and probably most ERs, are not known for in-and-out service). He read a Talmudic tract. I propped my injured leg on a vacant seat and found where I'd left off in the book I'd brought, somewhere in the third chapter of Carl Hiasen's Sick Puppy. It was my first Hiasen (I know, I know), and I can see why he's so popular with critics and readers. A little Elmer Leonard, I think, with a backdrop that's unique to South Florida.

 

"Krich," an official sounding voice called.

 

I was impressed. I had been waiting only fifteen minutes. I showed my ID and was ushered into a small cubicle where a nurse took my vitals and sent me back the lobby to wait again.

A black man slouched two seats away was eying my husband. "How are you with God?"

My husband put down his text. "Sorry? I don't know what you mean."

 

"Well, you're a Jew, right?"

 

I'm pretty sure it was the yarmulke, and not the tract, that led to this pronouncement.

 

"That's right."

 

"I'm a follower of Louis Farrakhan."

 

That put me on guard.

 

"Why can't I be a Jew, can you tell me that?" the man asked.

 

"No reason," my husband said. "You can convert, if you want to. Although Judaism isn't into proseletzying."

 

"Sammy Davis was a Jew."

 

"Right."

 

"Why do you call us niggers?" Belligerent, now.

 

"We don't."

 

"What about you?" He had turned to me. "Are you with God?"

 

I told him I was.

 

"I've never seen a Jewish woman, just Jewish men."

 

"There are as many Jewish women as there are Jewish men," my husband said.

 

"Lemme just show you this." The man sat up. He reached into a tote and produced a black plastic bag wrapped around what looked like books.

 

"Thanks," my husband said. "I'm not interested." Very polite.

 

"Why not?" the man demanded.

 

"I'm not interested," my husband repeated.

 

The man scowled at him. "Jews," he muttered and turned his head away from us.

 

A few minutes later he left to use the rest room. A nurse brought a wheel-chaired young man into the lobby. From the direction of the rest rooms I could hear the other man yelling.

 

"Maybe we should alert Security," I told my husband. I had noticed four or five Security staff.

 

"Because of me?" This from the man in the wheel chair.

 

"No, not at all. Because of the man who's yelling." I'm not sure he believed me.

 

"Krich."

 

Only a little after nine. Much better than we'd expected. We grabbed our things and followed another nurse down a hall, through a set of doors, and down another hall to one of the ER rooms. I changed into a gown and tried to get comfortable on the bed. A male nurse took my vitals again.

 

"The doctor will be with you soon," he told me.

 

I resumed reading Sick Puppy.

 

"Soon" turned out to be just that. Doctor R.D., tall and handsome and charming, examined my leg.

 

"I don't think you have a clot, but as long as you're here, let's do the scan."

 

"What about the numbness in the kneecap?" I asked.

 

"It'll go away."

 

I felt silly for having come to the ER, guilty for having phoned the doctor on Shabbat. I wondered how much of the ER fee my insurance would cover. I contemplated cancelling the scan, but what if there was  a clot?

 

"You'll be out of here in half an hour," Dr. D assured me.

 

I probably would have been, if not for the urgent trauma admission and several other emergencies that took precedence. We heard repeated violent retching from a woman in a nearby room . A baby's wailing. A belligerent voice that may have belonged to the Farrakhan follower.

 

It was past midnight. I was increasingly dubious about the necessity for the scan. I hadn't had Advil in over six hours, so my leg ached. I couldn't find a comfortable position on the bed. I had finished the book.

 

"I'm going home," I told my husband. "I'm getting dressed."

 

"You can't."

 

"Why not? We're not prisoners."

At that moment the ultrasound technician wheeled his equipment into the room. I should have threatened sooner.

"Sorry about the wait," he said.

He told us he was the only ultrasound technician on duty. "I feel bad for the patients, but good about the job security."

I didn't blame him.

He applied warm gel to my leg and thigh.  "No clot," he informed me when he was done.

That was good news.

Another hour went by before the handsome and still charming Dr. D signed me out. "Sorry about the long wait," he said. I could tell he meant it.

Back at home, my husband and I watched one of the shows we'd taped on our DVR and had two scoops each of Baskin-Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge.

 

 

 

 

Purple Majesty

Day six since my bike adventure. Most of my left leg, from groin to ankle, is purple and black and assorted colors, with hints of yellow. I guess that means the colors will soon recede.

The swelling on my knee has subsided, reduced from the size of a mango to an avocado, but the kneecap area is still numb. My doctor says not to worry. I'm able to walk around, but am trying not to put too much pressure on my left leg, which I can bend somewhat. No Yoga for me for a while--I really miss the stretches.

On Saturday our four-year-old grandson was at the house. A few days earlier he had fallen in his sukkah and lost two fingernails. When I took him and my son home from Cedars Emergency, he had proudly showed me his bandaged and splinted "bionical" fingers.

He waved them at me.

"Doing okay?" I asked.

He nodded. "Can I see your boo-boo, Nana?"

This is a kid who loves Lord of the Rings and is fascinated by bows and arrows and sabers.

"Sure." I eased the bandage to the side. "What do you think?"

He studied my knee for a moment. "Good," he pronounced.

I'm taking his word for it.

Like Riding a Bike

Yesterday, on a Sukkot outing with some of our kids and grandkids, we drove to Daniel's Bike shop in Marina del Ray and rented assorted bikes for the family. Some with training wheels; two tandems, one with a trailer for the youngest grandkids.

It's been many, many years since I rode a bike, and I had some trepidation about getting on the seven-gear purple number Joe, the shop manager (owner?) chose for me.

"I can't do this," I told my husband.

"Sure you can."

So I did.  After a few wobbly moments, I started peddling out of the parking lot and onto the bike path.

The bike path, between the car lane and the curb, proved traumatic for me and for the kids, who were frightened by the cars that came hurtling around the curve. In retrospect, we should have walked our bikes to the path several hundred feet ahead that is reserved for bikers and pedestrians.

Next time...

The day was glorious--a mild breeze, the sun glinting off the water. My husband and one of our daughters stopped on a bridge to say "Tashlich," the traditional Jewish prayer you recite on the second day of Rosh Hashana or in the days following to "cast off" your sins. 

Then I pedaled to join the others, who were somewhere up ahead.  There were buildings and jungle bars to my left, the sandy shore and ocean to my right. I passed a couple with a toddler whose corn-rows were embellished with sparkling mulitcolored crystals.

I felt exhilirated and remembered how much I had enjoyed biking. We should do this all the time, I thought. Great exercise, great scenery.

Joe had offered to stay open until 5 because it had taken so long to get all the bikes ready. At four-thirty I saw my daughter-in-law and granddaughter on one of the tandem bikes.

"We're all heading back," she told me.

I reversed direction.  My legs were a little tired, but I was still doing fine, still enjoying the activity. I crossed the bridge where we'd stopped earlier and prepared to turn right onto the path that would take us back to the bike shop.

My turn was too wide. In a moment of panic, and because I hadn't ridden a bike in decades and was unfamiliar with this purple beauty, I didn't think to use the brakes. I hurtled toward the wire barrier and slammed into it. My bike and I ended up wedged between the two wires that kept me from plummeting off the cliff into the ocean.

I felt a burning sensation in my left leg. I couldn't move.

Three men came to my rescue and, after some manipulation, extricated me and the bike from the barrier.

I rose slowly. I had thought that my left leg was broken. Thank goodness, it wasn't. My knee was burning. Through my torn tights I could see that it was a mess, bleeding and abraded. My left hand was mildly bruised.

My diamond earing had fallen from my left ear. One of my rescuers found it, and I spotted the backing glinting on the path.

My daughter and daughter-in-law had arrived, along with the grandchilden.

"You are too funny," my daughter-in-law said as I bent down to pick up the earring backing.

My daughter tore the tight away from the wound.

"What happened to your beautiful leg?" one of my granddaughters said.

"I'm fine," I assured her and the others.

We had planned to host a pizza party in our sukkah that night for the family, including our niece and her husband and two daughters. No reason not to have it, I told my husband. I placed the order on the way home.

By the time we got home, my knee was stiff, and when I rinsed it with hydrogen peroxide and applied a bandage with Neosporin, I was alarmed by how swollen it was, how distorted it looked. I had no sensation on the left side of my knee. My son worried that the kneecap may have been displaced, or that I had torn some ligaments.

All lovely possibilities.

So while everyone was in the sukkah, my husband drove me to Cedars Urgent Care (my daughter suggested this--it's better than sitting for hours in the Cedars Emergency Room), where my knee was X-rayed and a nurse dressed the wound and gave me a tetanus shot.

"Might be a hairline fracture of the tibia," Dr. Yamini told me. "The radiologist will have conclusive information in the morning. Call your doctor then. Chag sameach," he added before he left the room. Happy holiday.

I was trying.

Back home I put  ice packs on my knee and watched "So You Think You Can Dance," which I love. Then "Gary Unmarried." I had two cups of Baskin' Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge, which I could eat every day.

Even with four Advil tablets, I had an uncomfortable night. In the morning my knee was stiff, but I thought the swelling had subsided somewhat. Using a section of Press & Seal to keep my bandage dry, I showered and called the doctor.

"No fracture," his receptionist told me.

I feel lucky. I also feel stupid for not having used the brakes.

And I'm ready to go biking again.