Mmmm, chemical fog.

So I went to the clinic after work, right? Everything was fine and dandy until I said the phrase “car accident.” At that point, the nurse-on-duty did the quickest backpedaling act I’ve ever seen. She flatly stated, “We cannot treat you. Go to the ER.”

Tonight’s thumbs-up comment goes to Lee Cornelius out in the Huntsville ER. Seinfeld-esque bedside manner—while answering my annoying questions to boot. I hate x-rays. I’ve had way too many of them in my life, and these were the most pain-free ones I’ve dealt with in a long time. Has more to do with his good cheer, flippant sense of humor, and general tolerance of my mouthiness than anything else.

So, I spend a couple of hours in the ER to find out what I suspected—a nice case of whiplash. I’m currently on a happy muscle relaxant and NSAID. I’m typing this in frantically in the hopes of getting it posted before I turn into an absolute drooling idiot. Which, by my guesstimation, is coming up in about ten minutes. The fog is creeping in toward my brain…

On the way home I got an idea of just how bad I was this afternoon. After calling Jeff from the clinic, he agreed that I probably should go to the ER. So he picked me up, we drove to the ER, got me admitted to the hospital, did the exams and x-rays and whatnot. Then we got my prescriptions filled and picked up some dinner.

Only at that point did I realize I’d locked my keys in the car. Brain NOT functioning.

Okay, drugs are kicking in. Good night.

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