I lay on the foyer floor of the wellness center, broken shoulder cradling broken thigh. The EMT deftly slipped a pair of scissors into his hand and reached for my jean's cuff.
"Don't cut," I hissed .
"Your knee. Your thigh."
It was not noon, and I spent the next several hours having my broken bones xrayed at that auxiliary emergency room, under the direction of "downtown" . "It's easier this way," and recalling my experiences of being trundled from A to B "downtown," yes it was.
I kept my jeans intact.
About eight in the evening I made the trip to Cleveland Clinic main emergency room.
Barely in the examination room, the kid whipped out the scissors.
No answer. The fabric taughtened.
" She said not to cut!, " and a lovely woman EMT elbowed Mr. Scissor Hands aside. "We know the value of good jeans!"
Over the butt, good leg, bad leg; jeans folded and sent home with Jan. Probably less noise from me than cutting.