Say you’ve fallen off your roof. Maybe it was your fault, or maybe you were just an innocent bystander, holding a flashlight for a professional roof worker, when a raccoon bolted from the chimney, scampered over and bit your leg, and in your attempt to shake it off (while still holding the flashlight) you slipped, slid off the roof and fell three stories.
Either way, you fall three stories, the ambulance comes, the paramedics strap you up and down and put a bunch of tubes in you and shoot you with some cocktail of pain-killers and whatnot. You’re blurry, still in pain, and they say, “Dude, I don’t think you’re going to make it.” At first you’re concerned, because how did they know your first name is “Dude”. But then you realize you didn’t have any proper roof-repair clothes and so you threw on your bowling shirt, which has “Dude” stitched above your left breast pocket where you keep your wallet when you’re with the guys.
The ambulance hits a bump, jerks you back to reality, and you can count the 87 different broken bones you suffered when you survived the fall. Which reminds you, did that guy who keeps shining the light in your eyes say he didn’t think you were going to live?
|But hey, you got to ride in one!|
You forgot to pay your wireless phone bill, and you can’t even feel it in your pocket, and how are you going to call your buddy, Edwin, who promised to take care of your porn stash in just such an emergency?
Wait, you’ll be dead. Problem solved.
But what will your wife say? What will your 22 year-old girlfriend Kitty say?
Huh? You don’t have a 22 year-old girlfriend named Kitty. You were always too scared to lose your wife, and besides she does that one thing . . .
Wait a minute. You don’t even have a porn stash, much less a buddy named Edwin who promised to take care of your porn stash so that your wife and your non-existent 22 year-old girlfriend named Kitty wouldn’t find it and think horribly of you. You didn’t need those things, or even want them because your wife does more than just that one thing, especially after you’ve . . . .
What the hell did that paramedic give you anyhow!?
And why hasn’t he said, “STAY WITH ME!” yet? Shouldn’t you be telling some deeply personal life story so that you can remain conscious?
That’s when the ambulance arrives at the ER and suddenly you’re surrounded by life-saving doctors, nurses, technology and, of course more drugs. At some point, you start walking toward a light, then you swim toward it, and then you’re bathing in it, only to find out it wasn’t a light after all, but a waterfall of Sunkist orange juice.
As enjoyable and sticky as that is, just like that other thing your wife sometimes does, you eventually come back to consciousness and the doctor tells you that you’re going to live, but it’s going to be some time, and some intense physical therapy before you’re even walking, let alone well enough to go back to work, or get up on the roof again. He’s not certain exactly how long, because most people in a case like yours don’t actually make it to the hospital, but you’re stable now, and given time, all will be well.
So given that all this, the big crash and the life-threatening injuries, and the sudden panic over things that weren’t even necessarily real, and then what appears to be a long, long rehabilitation (because this wasn’t just a case of the hiccups), would you get all bent out of shape that twelve months later everything wasn’t back to where it was before?
Would you be angry then?
Well, would you?