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| HUMOR FROM THE PUMPKIN PATCH By Marti Lawrence Articles published in The Examiner Newspaper Not the Best Kind of Breaking News In December, I broke my right ankle, shattering several bones and requiring hours of surgical repair. Being of not-so-sound mind, and even less-sound body, I decide this is a great topic for a humorous essay. Early that morning, it was snowing fiercely, and I had to drive Middle Son to High School to take the ACT. I was relieved to return home safely, since the roads were very slippery. I approached the front door, pausing for a moment to admire the beauty of the new-fallen snow. |
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| I stepped a few feet beyond the front door for a better view. It was spectacular. It was freezing. After a few shivering seconds, I turned back towards the front door. Or at least most of me turned. My right foot was firmly planted in a snowdrift, and did not turn, but remained pointing east, as the rest of me rotated northward. This is unnatural, and in fact, physically impossible. I was trying to overrule the laws of nature. Gravity, one of the tights-and-cape-wearing-superhero "Enforcers for The Laws of Nature," swiftly moved in, slamming me downward, while saying, (in his deep, strong, superhero voice), "Not on my watch, Missy!" I heard distinct snapping and popping. Then, there I was, on my belly, on the concrete front porch, several feet from the front door. Snow was still falling heavily. Our home is rural, isolated; there is no one within shouting range. I was alone. (Gravity had answered his cell phone, then flown off, cape waving jauntily in the wind.) Decades of being accident-prone have taught me that there is a 1-2 minute gap between the occurrence of a serious body trauma, and the actual beginning of pain. So I mustered myself up onto my elbows, and started dragging. Drag, drag, drag, and reach up for doorknob. Push away kitty trying to lick face. Open door. Watch herd of kitties barrel past me into warmth of house. Drag through front door, pulling it shut. Drag to telephone. Kitties, disappointed at not finding bowl of warm milk, return to lick face. Dial telephone, get Mother-in-law. Tell her I broke my leg, need a ride home for Middle Son in five hours at end of ACT. She tells me I am crazy for not calling 911 first. I tell her I know they will keep me on phone until help arrives, then I would happily accept pain-killing drugs, and be unable to call. She smiles (at least it sounded like smiling), says not to worry, and I call 911. Tell dispatcher of my dilemma. "Are you sure it's broken?" I look down right leg, see right foot no longer aligned with leg. Foot is beside leg, in "U" shape. Little toe side of foot is facing me. Yes I'm sure. Am I alone? Yes, Husband is at work, Daughter is spending the night elsewhere, and Middle Son is taking the ACT. Cats are here, licking face. Cats don't count. Dispatcher is directing emergency crew through blizzard. Yes, they have found the address. No, the ambulance cannot get up the driveway. Try the firetruck. No, the firetruck won't make it. Send paramedics on foot. I remain on telephone with dispatcher and remain calm. I've done this before. Some 18 years ago, I fell and broke my left ankle. As it turns out, the surgical repair was nearly identical. Both legs will have large metal plates anchored by screws and bolts, surrounded by additional bolts and screws holding other bones together. Lucky me, I will have twins. "Yes" will be my answer to the inevitable airport security question, "Do you have metal INSIDE your leg? Both legs??" I hear voices. Tell dispatcher on phone I hear paramedics approaching. He orders Fire Marshall's SUV to attack the driveway. Paramedics reach front door, look through glass, see me on floor, see foot not aligned to leg and attempt to hide look of horror on their faces. They climb over me (I barely made it inside the front door), dispatcher approves nitrous oxide (laughing gas) for transporting me the first leg (bad pun) of our journey. Paramedics are great, telling me the most fabulous jokes (or could it be the nitrous?) They slide a backboard under me, carry me Cleopatra-style, out the front door, across the porch, down the steps, across the yard, over the river and through the woods (just kidding) to the Fire Marshall's SUV. We go on a sleigh ride down the driveway, to the couldn't-make-it-up-the-driveway ambulance. Transfer me, begin morphine drip. Ahh, glorious morphine! Arrive at emergency room. I am first of many who will slip and fall. While still semi-conscious, I call Best Friend, explain situation. She braves blizzard, comes to hospital. God bless her. She contacts Husband, checks on other family members, performs dozens of other helpful tasks, assures me things will be fine, gets me glass of water, finds cure for cancer (just kidding, but she is certainly diligent enough to). Stays with me until Husband arrives. Various medical personnel enter, examine, and exit. They're not fooling me; I used to work in a hospital. I know they aren't really performing medical duties, but gathering information for the ER worst-injury-of-the-day betting pool. I have little chance of winning, blizzard continues, multiple car accidents are coming in. I hope no one bets on me. Surgeon finally appears, explains procedure, ("the foot bone's connected to the leg bone, the leg bone's connected to the...".) Anesthesia...blissful pain reduction... darkness. Slowly come around in hospital room. See husband, children peering nervously at me. Smiles and hugs all around. Spent several days recovering in hospital, staff very nice. Returned home to recuperate and try to find the humor in the situation. Nothing like laughter (and morphine) to relieve the pain. |
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