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Nov 16

You’d better stick the landing, or they’ll assume he beats you.

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This week is two days old and it’s already two days too long. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t bode well for your week as a whole when you end up in Urgent Care halfway through Monday.

See, I started the day kicking ass. I caught up on a ton of paperwork, I showed a house and got a signed lease out of the deal so I headed to my next appointment riding high on the fumes that are an inevitable byproduct of being hot shit. I was in the process of talking another group into signing a lease, even.

And then I fell down the stairs.

A piece of trash on the stairs from yet another frat party weekend found its way under my foot. I took a tumble and I did NOT stick the landing. In reality I only fell 2 steps and but it was enough. My foot planted and my knee went in one direction while my foot stayed firmly planted in place. The loud POP from my ankle just echoed in the stairwell and for a few seconds I couldn’t feel my foot. I stood and tested it gingerly. It was tender, but I was still mobile. I smiled and made a joke to my tour group and sent them ahead to the office.

I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to bend that way.

I got in the car and called my husband who didn’t answer the damn phone, and then proceded to bawl my eyes out to the Dean On-Call Nurse. Ken called back around the same time I was hobbing into my office and treated me to the following conversation:

Me, still blubbering: “I need you to come get me and take me to St. Mary’s.”
Ken, not really registering what St. Mary’s is: “Yeah? What’s going on?”
Me, more than a little indignant/impatient: “I fell at one of our buildings and I did something to my ankle.”
Ken, still completely oblivious to my increasing pain: “Think you rolled it?”
Me, officially pissed off: “This more than a roll. Can you stop asking questions and just take me to the damn hospital?” *crying a little more*
Ken, finally with some urgency: “Fine, I’m coming right now.”

Of course, he’s on the other side of campus and will be walking the 1.5 miles to me unless he catches a well timed bus or a ride with a coworker. So I grabbed an icepack from the freezer, propped my foot up at my desk, and started doing the lease paperwork for my tour group that just walked in the door. I managed to explain 3/4 of the conditions to them by the time Ken showed up and made him wait while I finished the last 1/4, because I’m nothing if not dedicated. Then I waved a hasty goodbye to the coworker and hobbled into the car before blubbering into my now cold latte the whole way to the emergency room.

It only took about 20 minutes to get admitted before they wheeled me and my fat girl cankle to a room down the hall. Everything was more or less standard up to the point where they asked Ken to come back out to check me in and then the nurse turned to me and asked in hushed, but urgent tones, “Now that we’re alone, I have to ask: are you safe at home? No one hurts or threatens you?”

I just blinked at her for a second, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything. Then it dawned on me: I fell down the stairs + My husband brought me to the ER = They think he beats me. And then I laughed long and hard before shaking my head and telling her ‘no’ in a tone that could only be described as “You’re a ‘tard.”  She huffed her way out of the room and Ken rejoined me a minute later.

Are you serious? Have you seen my husband?

Of course, Ken knew nothing of this little exchange until an hour or so later when he cracked a joke about me knowing my role. Then I told him about the nurse’s concern and he was absolutely incredulous (probably because I abuse him on the daily, not the other way around). So of course he then decides to exacerbate the issue by making more tasteless jokes which I obviously laughed at because the whole thing was so ludicrous that it couldn’t be anything but funny.

The ankle is not broken, but it’s pretty badly sprained and there are some gross purplish bruises around fat spots that didn’t exist before. I’m in an aircast for a week or so and on crutches through at least the end of the week.

The moral of the story here? If you’re going to fall down the stairs, you’d better stick the landing, lest your loving spouse be mistaken for an abusive schmuck.

4 comments

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  1. Dani

    Oy.

    When I sat on a steak knife and impaled myself in the ass, the ER called THE POLICE because I was in there with a STAB WOUND. As I was laying face down on the table, naked from the waste down and literally bleeding OUT THE ASS, they questioned me repeatedly to make sure no one had done this to me. I’m all, “DUDE… if someone stabbed me in the ASS, I WOULD TELL YOU.” THEN… I had a psychiatrist in the room asking me if it was a suicide attempt, since the wound was “self-inflicted.”

    Good times, good times.

    Another time, my youngest son was bitten on the inner thigh by a brown recluse. The wound looked horrible… like a huge burn blistering in the middle. They whisked him back and made me sit in a room with social services while they grilled my baby on whether or not mommy burned him with a cigarette. Ummmm… Mommy doesn’t smoke. They finally determined it was a spider bite (thank GOD) but were so convincing and confusing to my precious 5 year old that on the ride home he said, “Mommy, you didn’t burn me with a cigarette… did you?”

    Bitches. DIE!!!

    Meanwhile… feel better soon, peanutt! xoxo
    Dani recently posted..Saggy Boobs Are Totally The New BlackMy Profile

    1. admin

      Seriously? You stabbed yourself in. the. ass. with a steak knife? Fuck it. You win the internets.

      The suicide attempt thing is priceless. Because if you were going to off yourself, you couldn’t possibly devise any faster or more efficient way than that. Good Jesus Fuck.

      Don’t even get me started on social services schmucks.

  2. Heather Rose

    You werent kidding about your Monday being worse than my Wednesday. You totally win.

    I got thrown off a horse and into a fence my freshmen year of high school and subsequently showed up to gym class with a foot-long purple bruise/welt on my left thigh. I missed an entire volleyball game that day trying to convince my gym teacher that it wasnt my parents beating me. I also probably shouldnt have referred to the horse as my “four-legged boyfriend” when I said he was the one who was beating me…
    Heather Rose recently posted..And then I stabbed myself in the cuticle with a forkMy Profile

    1. admin

      I’ve spent most of my life being seriously anemic, so I bruise really easy. I got a black eye from going to the dentist last week. Thankfully, most people who know me just assume that the bruises mean I got what I deserved.

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