Because Crutches Are The Latest Hot Accessory, Right?
Not a whole lot happens in our quaint little slice of suburbia, tucked neatly back in the sticks of "CaCo", so on a lazy Saturday afternoon when an ambulance shoots down our street sirens blaring followed quickly by a hovering medivac helicopter that we're certain will land in the field just a block from our house, the adrenaline junkie in me (and "hapto-copter" lover) in the toddler took off on a brisk walk down the street to, for lack of better words, be nosy.
By the time we arrived, the helicopter had already touched down and a very large crowd of looky-loo's had gathered around. From hushed whispers I was able to piece together that there was a nearby car accident and once it was deemed necessary for the patient to be airlifted to the city hospital, a detour was made and the helicopter met the ambulance in our neighborhood, an ideal location for a helicopter to land, for the patient transfer. Apparently this is a common occurrence in these situations.
A midst all of the commotion, from a safe distance away, I began pointing out all of the emergency responders. As the toddler ooh' and ahh'd over them, I knew he was excited to have a front row seat to the action. I explained to him that we would have to pray for the young man who was being transferred from the ambulance to the helicopter. I explained to him that he was being flown to the hospital where the doctor's and nurses will fix his boo-boo's and as the helicopter lifted off the ground, the toddler cheered.
The crowd began to disperse and as I scooped the toddler up onto my hip, we began to walk away from the field, he, excitedly recanting the experience. "The hapto-copter pick up the boy. Doctor's check him. Me me pray at night night time." He really got it. Sometimes I forget how much he really understands.
And then, suddenly, I was on the ground, the toddler in my lap, a searing pain radiating from my ankle to my knee and back. I had stepped in a six inch hold, twisted my ankle and fell like a ton of bricks.
In front of all my neighbors. Because I had insisted on being nosy.
Quickly, one of the neighbor-dad's asked if I was alright, if I could stand. Biting back tears and the sting of humiliation, I said I was alright, that I had definitely twisted my ankle and that I couldn't stand. He asked if I thought he should grab one of the EMTs. You know, the EMT's that were lingering after am emergent patient transfer from ambulance to medivac helicopter.
As the EMT's gathered, assessing my ankle, asking the usual questions, I couldn't help but laugh at the toddler who was reenacting the experience. He was jumping into the hole, sitting down exclaiming, "OH MY BOO-BOO!" I swear at one point he even asked me if I needed to "wide in the hapto-copter" so that the "doctor's could check you out."
But I digress. I couldn't stand and I definitely couldn't walk the toddler back home. I refused to ride in the offered ambulance to the hospital for recommended xrays and called my husband to come pick us up, saying that if I needed to go to the hospital, he could take me. After a few expletives and stuffing the baby into the car, I'm sure, he arrived, shocked to see me sitting on the ground surrounded by six EMT's and our good neighbor friends.
The same EMTs who had to carry me to the car. CARRY ME TO THE CAR. As if I wasn't already embarrassed enough. I signed the waiver saying that I refused a ride in the ambulance to the hospital and said a silent prayer that it was just a really bad sprain, nothing a couple ibuprofen, some ice and maybe a margarita couldn't fix.
Three bags of ice, two sleeping kids on the couch next to me and a husband who has no idea how to maintain a sane household with a laid up wife later, it was time for bed. I hopped up onto my husband's back for a piggy ride upstairs and realized that, yes, it was indeed possible to feel even more humiliated. I hoped that by morning the swelling would improve and I could at least bear some weight on my foot. If not, I knew I would need some X-rays.
And that's exactly how I spent our Sunday morning, at the local urgent care center, after I woke up unable to bear weight on my right foot. Unable to pick up either of the boys. Unable to change diapers, dress them or make their breakfast. Unable to stand up in the shower, unable to walk downstairs.
Talk about a hot mess.
The verdict? A grade three sprain with torn ligaments and possible hairline fracture. There was too much swelling to determine if there was, indeed a fracture, so I left with strict instructions to stay off the ankle, ice it, elevate it and take ibuprofen around the clock. To only move around with the fancy new crutches I was provided, if absolutely necessary. To return in 5-7 days for re-imaging if the swelling has not improved.
Let's just say this week suddenly got a whole lot more interesting. If you need me, I'll be on the couch while my two little kids patiently and quietly play at my feet.
Because that would be nice, wouldn't it? That's the last time I play the role of nosy little neighbor...