"This is going to be an interesting night."
-Dunndee aka M. Yaupon, Rm. 801
Famous. Last. Words.
I would like to start this blog with the best photo ever, despite whatever repercussions may incur.
Amy Gangsta' gettin' jiggy wit it wit...someone.
So it was Amy's 21st and I have to say, I think we did things up right. Started off at Manuel's with some prickly pear margaritas, and ended with Amy's right boob somewhat exposed.
Martha, Amy G, Sara, Haylee, myself
The summation of the night could be this: I had to work the next day and when I asked Haylee (the only other one who had to wake up and go to work) how she was going to work the next day she said "How? With a frown on my face and Starbucks in my hand." With that, we were off, and I took her advice the next day and did just that.
Now. Keep in mind. That meant I got a grand total of 3 1/2 hours of sleep for the night, went to work, came home and went out again.
And so began the longest. night. eveerrr.
You think I'm kidding?
Guest List:
D&R, Pete & Amy, and Jen & Dunndee
It worked out rather neatly, I will say that.
Up until about 1:30 AM when Jen decided to turn in and head back to her car. Dunndee decided to be a gentlemen and escort her back through perilous downtown ATX.
Keyword here, guys: perilous.
Picture this: you're waiting to cross 5th and San Jacinto, the light turns red, the little white "WALK" man comes up, you start to cross the street, and BAM you see a Mustang driving toward you at approximately 40 MPH.
What do you do?
Apparently if you are Dunndee, you gently shove/push/kindly escort (the phrasing depends on who you ask) Jen across the street toward safety, and then proceed to take the hit yourself, hit the hood of the car with your body, and then fall to the street while the driver speeds off.
Such is the life of a frisky Irishman.
It was about 0200 when we got the call that Chris had been hit by a car, at which point I just went into panic/shutdown and Pete and Doug went into crisis mode. I think Amy was just plain drunk/sickly.
Chris was transported to Brackenridge, where all the traumas go and strangely also where Martha works, but alas not that night and alas I totally managed to blank out on that small tidbit of information.
When we arrived at Brack, Doug and Jen went back to console Chris, while Pete, Amy G & I held down the fort in the ER waiting room next to a massive woman wearing a velour tracksuit with a windbreaker over her head. She proceeded to provide the soundtrack to the night with a variety of nasal and gutteral snoring patterns that made me wonder just how long she had been crammed in the corner of the ER.
Meanwhile, Dunndee went through a variety of CT, MRIs, etc. and Doug and Pete did the phone thing and managed to get ahold of the parent Dunndees, which I can only imagine was a frightening, less-than-welcome phone call to be receiving at about 0240. Although, I have to say, I was glad that Doug and Pete were there to make the necessary calls that we otherwise would not have been able to provide.
As for the SDF (stupid drunken female), I like to think by this juncture she was in jail or going through some booking unpleasantries at the courthouse downtown, since they caught her on 35 after a parking attendant (someone needs to get this guy's name and number) got her license plate number and gave them to the police.
At around 0430, I went in to see Chris and offered my easily forgettable candygram services by singing "We Can Be Heroes" to him for about three verses before trailing off. All I could remember was:
I, I wish I could swim. Like dolphins, like dolphins can swim. ... We can be heroes, just for one day.
At some juncture, a nurse came in and started wiping the dried blood off of Dunndee.
Regular readers of this blog know, I have seen some serious blood. Massive, massive amounts of blood gushing out of arteries and muscles dangling down and horses quivering in pain and of course, Molly's broken ankle feeling like a bag of marbles in my hand three years ago.
So it would not surprise you that it was not the blood that made me start to feel sick. It was not the gash across his face that was stiched together neatly, already healing. Nor was it his missing teeth that made me sick to my stomach.
Standing there talking to Chris as he winced in pain as the nurse tried in vain to clean up his more superficial wounds, two things made my ears begin to ring and my eyes blur. I was sick over watching a human in obvious excruciating pain, not just physical but a very devastating mental anguish. I also became so enraged with the stupidity of the person who hit him that I could hardly see straight. My ears started ringing and black spots started filling my eyes, and my brain felt like it was expanding rapidly. I had to excuse myself, at which point I took a brief respite on the convenient stretcher outside of Chris's trauma room.
At about 0500 Chris was whisked into surgery, at which point we ended our vigil and headed home. The next day we all reconvened at chez Chris, which has a great view of downtown Austin that would probably fetch a lot of money if it were a hip loft. The next few days were filled with Doug dutifully emptying Dunndee's piss bottles, Amy eating all of Chris's goodies, Jen drawing vague sketchings of something that resembled a large spoon and me antagonizing the nurse staff until they offered me a job and just let me have free use of the ice and water machine and the bulk package of straws, respectively.
I will not stop being impressed with the outpouring of support that Chris has recieved from his fellow service men and women, which not only makes me feel that much more fondly toward the Army and the subesquent relationships that are made while in it, but I also think it speaks volumes of Dunndee's general reputation among his peers. He is obviously respected and it is easily apparent that any one of his many, many visitors would do anything to help him out.
Tomorrow Dunndee has surgery number 3, that is if he can swim through the mountains of Christmas cookies, poinsettias, Maxim magazines, and empy ginger ale cans to his doorway. He and his family are in my thoughts through all of this. I will end this with Chris's self portrait he took with his "8-bit grainy camera phone" which does not even hold a candle to the self portrait he did on origami paper with pencils while on painkillers, but it will do for now.
If you want to go visit him, he is at Brackenridge. Just follow the Black Jack signs that lead to his room.
