terrible songs they play in emergency rooms

I was in an emergency room yesterday. I took my mom because she essentially tripped over her own feet and landed in a hallway and thought maybe she broke some ribs. (Did I ever tell you about how graceful I am? Now you know who I get it from. Heh.) Turns out that she didn’t break anything, but has some bruised ribs which seems like a good time, if only because of the fact that they give you some painkillers for that and who doesn’t love painkillers? When I was 10, I had my tonsils removed and I turned out to be allergic to the painkiller they gave me (it made me barf, and barfing after a tonsillectomy: good times) so they put me on something else and I took one pill and spent 10 minutes staring at my hand, absolutely fascinated by the fact that whoa, dude, I can, like, move my fingers and I said to my mom, “Mom, I feel kind of funny,” and she replied “That’s because you’re high.” True story. Somehow that was supposed to be making a point about something.

Anyway, I’m glad my mom didn’t break her ribs and will better soon. Yay, mom!

But sitting in an emergency room is like being in Hell. In fact, had emergency rooms existed when Dante Alighieri wrote Inferno, I’m sure at least one of the circles of Hell would’ve been modeled after one, and it would’ve been all, “While Virgil and I were traipsing along through the bowels of Hell meeting up with people who were mean to me back in Florence, we entered a bright white room with a lot of chairs and couple of vending machines, you know, and there was this television stuck on CNN and everybody had to watch Wolf Blitzer. And they all needed stitches. Ha! Serves you right, bastards!”

Provided you’re not the one with the emergency and you’re just there offering support to the person with the emergency, sitting in an emergency room is SO BORING. I took a book with me (Pale Fire — you know, it doesn’t make for good hospital reading) by the time we got through the triage blabbity blah, we went back to this room that was very much similar to a standard doctor’s office room. And sometimes in ERs, they have TVs, but in this one? No. They were piping in music, however. So I got to listen to horrible hospital radio for three hours. (I sent a text to a friend when I got there and said “I’m guessing no less than 3 hours” and you know what? I WAS SO RIGHT. Three hours EXACTLY. This is one of those times I wish I hadn’t been right.) I mostly don’t remember any specific songs, or I don’t know titles anyway, but over the course of my three hours in ER hell, my brain would occasionally jerk itself out of that boredom-induced autopilot it sinks into during such occasions and think, “Wait, is this — yeah, Rob Thomas. Right.” Some other musicians I recognized:

– John Mayer

– Faith Hill

– Del Amitri (Remember them? Are you impressed that I do? Not so much? Okay.)

– Deep Blue Something (“Breakfast at Tiffany’s” a.k.a. “Let’s break up. Wait, though. What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Oh yes, I remember that movie and we both thought that it was, you know, kind of alright. Well, I guess that means we have something in common after all. Let’s stay together.” a.k.a. WORST SONG EVER)

– Phil Collins

I understand that it’s just supposed to be background noise to drown out the sounds of people screaming “OH GOD, THERE’S SO MUCH BLOOD! AAAAAAHHHHHH!” (I mean, that’s it, right?) and that’s nice and all, but still. And is this a common practice, emergency room radio? And furthermore, is there someone who compiles these playlists, called something like “Songs guaranteed to make a person numb” or is it like a giant iPod, stuffed full of easy-listening and set on shuffle? Either way, someone has to do something to make it happen. I admit that I’m somewhat fascinated by the whole thing — what kind of job is this, and does the person who does this enjoy it?

Thoughts like these come from the “well I have to entertain myself somehow” part of my brain.

And I suppose it’s dumb, thinking that there’s one person responsible for all the dull emergency room music. It’s kind of like… remember when you used to be able to call a number and be told what time it is? (I know it doesn’t exist around here anywhere anymore, but is that still available in other places?) When I was a kid, I used to call it up and think that there was a real lady on the other end of the phone with a clock, reading the time to me, and I thought that would be a good job. Yep. When I grew up, I wanted to be the Time Lady.

And now that I’ve gotten so entirely far away from my point, whatever it really was, I suppose it’s a good time to stop. Happy Friday and whatnot.