(Why “Thank Me”? All will be revealed, my chicks.)
NEW YEAR’S EVE
I was, of course, dateless. Possibly because I am physically repulsive and devoid of kindness or wit. But I don’t think so.
My buddy A. and I were too tired to go out on the town. We decided to wait to celebrate until the coming weekend:
We were headed for Disneyland! It would still be Christmas there until the Feast of the Epiphany (Jan. 6th). We WOULD get the Christmas we’d missed due to three bad birds.
NEW YEAR’S DAY
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, typing on my table-t ( 🙂 ).
(What do you think of my super new ringtone from InMyEye-toons?)
It’s a Tons o’Tuna dude.
MY goal? To set up a meet with him. HIS goal? To phone-flirt.
I don’t have time for this! Chats and phone calls tell you nothing until AFTER you’ve met. Cut to the chase, boy!
As he’s telling me all about himself and himself, and himself, and throwing in a few questions, and sometimes waiting for part of my answers,
I have plenty of time to finish what I’ve been typing.
Suddenly, I notice my cell’s about to die–I’d better plug this puppy in!
The I-plug is in another room (I.-e. ( 😉 ) the plug with the I-cord attached to the I-jack for the rapidly-fading I-device). I stand up and take a step toward The Power of I.
I am lying full length on the floor.
I didn’t trip. After only 45 minutes at the tablet, my entire left leg has fallen entirely asleep. That CRACK was the sound of a homophone.
I have a post of limericks I wrote at work one bored day decades ago. One of them goes like this:
The woman named Barbara Taylor
Had a fling with a globe-trotting sailor,
But he nine months at sea,
And poor Barbara T.
Found her gob-stopper proven a failor.
Now, that limerick has a sequel:
The woman named Barbara Taylor,
Had her dress taken out by a tailor,
But when fitting her slip,
Her foot it did slip,
Her bone that was broken’s called “talar”.
I’m lying there on my floor (across two floors, actually), staring at my now-bent glasses flung under the tree.
I’m feeling some…significant pain. Pretty certain I broke my ankle.
Tuna-Dude is still dronin’ on. We’re on speaker phone, mind you—at full I-volume.
I just CRASHED onto the floor, but this dude is acting like nothing happened.
With Herculean effort, I suppress the two words of Italian I normally resort to in these circumstances.
As is my wont [usual habit], I do not want…
Anyone to know, any pain to show…
(Typical of abused kids)
So I go on saying “Uh-huh”, and “Yuh”…
As I crawl all fours, on across two floors…
Get some ice to treat (“rattle, rattle”)…
My now-swelling feet (“ziplock bag crackle”)…
That’s because one foot,
Doesn’t rhyme so goot…
And the dude drones on. He is so, like, GONE.
Seriously. He doesn’t notice a thing as I hop down the hall to the bedroom and get into bed. I finally get off the phone with this Person I Will Never Ever EVER Date.
Two hours of ice later, a distinct-edged silver-dollar-sized swelling rising kneeward, I decide an E/R visit is in order.
I know I should put no weight on the thing, but if I call for an ambulance, protocol is to take me to the nearest facility—not the competent one.
Bugger-All Institution‘s E/R, BIER, almost killed me in 2013. (Yes, literally.) I choose instead to drive myself to Justifiably Excellent’s E/R. It saved my life in 2013. (Yes, literally.)
I walk down three sets of stairs to my car:
“Ow.” “Ow.” “Ow.” (Not for each set–For each step.)
I drive up to the E/R entrance. As soon as I pull up, a lone security guard turns his back on me (yes—literally). When I call out to him “Where do I park?”, he walks away.
I step down from my mini-SUV (“Ow.”), walk over through the double doors, limping badly (“Ow”, “Ow”,”Ow”…I think you’ve got it now), gimp painfully up to the desk, and say:
Me: “I think my ankle is broken. Can you tell me where to park?”
Desk Dude: (pointing directly at the ceiling) “Over there.”
Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
Desk Dude: (pointing to a light fixture) “That way.”
Me: “Um…Can you tell me something like ‘the northwest corner of this-and-that streets’?”
Desk Dude: (pointing right) “Turn left. It’s next to the bank.”
Me: “Uhhh…I don’t know where the bank is. Turn left where?”
Desk Dude: (shrugging) “Park in the street.”
Me: “Are you serious?”
Desk Dude: “I don’t know what else to say.”
I park a quarter-mile away.
Let’s skip the long, painful walk from my car to the E/R.
FINALLY I’m in the E/R. Let’s get me out of there quickly, too, shall we? Short version: No ice is offered, no splint is applied. I’ve already expertly Ace-bandaged myself. An X-ray is taken; I am told I have only a sprain.
DAY AFTER NEW YEAR’S DAY:
E/R: “Miss Outlier? We made an error. Your ankle IS broken.”
This time, when I pull up to the double doors, a valet is waiting to park my car. I am told that a valet always parks the cars of ALL patients self-driving to the E/R.
All patients but the one you all need to thank.
A plaster splint is applied to my ankle and calf, surrounded with a double layer of Ace bandages.
Tra-la, tra-lay, back home, away!
7:00 PM, THAT SAME DAY
I remove my wooden walking shoe to go to bed. The E/R’s re-wrap of my Ace bandage now looks like this:
Whaaat??? The plaster splint beneath the bandage is still sopping wet. The plaster was left with too much water, and the splint must be replaced.
Tra-la, tra-lay, to the E/R, away!
As I limp through the double doors for the third time in 24 hours, another patient comes through with me. Coincidentally, she limps up to the desk and announces “I think my ankle is broken.”
SHE is seated immediately with a bag of ice.
The Weekend After New Year’s Day
Pressure, I later learn, from the-poorly-shaped second splint causes me unending…discomfort. No Disneyland.
A. and I do NOT get our Christmas or New Year’s celebration.
You people d#mn well better be thanking me NOW. By putting my best foot forward as your bad luck magnet on the very first day of this new year, I have now consecrated your entire year with whatever good fortune comes your way.
They say “Good things, they come in three”,
But you can’t prove that truth by me,
While you all seem to get good luck,
I’m ass-fault-ed by life’s dump-truck.
This post is NOT funny. I am decidedly grumpy.
I would go out and kick something, but I don’t have a leg to stand on.
And that, children, is how this Babe celebrated New Year’s!
It is extremely difficult to achieve a fracture of the ankle’s talar bone–a key bone which supports all your body’s weight. It is done, typically, only by male athletes at the top of their game, such as professional snowboarders, or by falling from a great height–leaping tall buildings in a single bound, or skydiving without a chute, perhaps–or by being inside an accordioned car in an accident. I fractured mine by standing up. But I like to think I stood up athletically.
The great news is that while the vast majority of talar fractures require surgery, pins, a cast, and months of recovery, mine is minor:
No cast; it’s moot:
The “break”, mere chip 🙂
For foot, a boot,
For pain, a quip.