Our Friday night started with a little good-natured basketball game.
As the game was winding up a couple hours later, the boys thought it would be fun to play tackle basketball. (Gold star if you know where this post is going.)
As I sat and watched my husband sprint down the court, I leaned over to the girl sitting next to me and said, "Someone is going to get hurt." I also apparently failed to knock on wood as I said it - as about T minus 15 seconds later my husband was writhing in pain on the gym floor.
I ran over to him to make sure he was okay, because I wasn't really sure what exactly had happened (wife points). I knew it was bad when I heard him dropping some choice expletives in between his groaning and punching the floor. Did I mention we were in a church gym?
Anyways, apparently he had jumped and then landed on someone's foot, obviously rolling his ankle in the worst way.
He took of his shoe and this is what we saw...
Only kind of nasty.
In the midst of all of it, I kept hearing things like "Class 3 sprain," "...he needs to go to the hospital....", "I was on crutches for three weeks when my foot looked like that" from everyone around us. So naturally I started to panic just a little bit.
We got into the Jeep and drove to the local emergency room, where we then waited for about 17 years to see a doctor. Shawn was surprisingly chipper after the initial 5-10 minutes following his fall (where I would have been drama queening the shiiiii out of the situation, had it been me). By the time we got to the triage nurse, his pain was only a 1 or a 2. But me being the overly paranoid person I am, told him we had to stay to make sure nothing was fractured. Even if it meant paying ungodly amounts of money for x-rays and ER copays.
Our friends finally left, while we were waiting for a room for Shawn. He and I apparently had a severe case of the slap happies, because we were cracking up at everything. Which I'm sure irritated more than enough people in the waiting room, who all looked absolutely miserable. Which makes sense, I suppose. The ER doesn't exactly scream rainbows and puppy dogs.
We finally got called back to a room. And my favorite part was walking past all the empty rooms. Good thing we waited for 97.2 hours for room 48. I don't think we could have accepted any of the other rooms. We then waited in the room for another 20 minutes, and watched about 4 different nurses walk in and take crap out of our room. As we continued to wait, we came up with the funniest diagnoses we could for what was wrong with his ankle. As well as how we think the hospital staff would react to us making use of the empty bed in the room. That was all probably more of a youhadtobethere kind of funny... So we'll just move right along.
The doctor finally got there, talked to him for 2 minutes, then took him to get x-rays. After waiting for 15 more minutes, the doctor came back to inform us that his ankle wasn't fractured and that he just needed to stay off it for a few days and he would be back to about normal in 7-10 days.
Anti climactic, much?
My favorite part was when Shawn turned to the doctor and said, "So, what are the chances I can run a 5K on Monday?" The doctor, missing every ounce of sarcasm that oozed out of my husbands mouth, just glared at him and replied, "No, that's not going to happen." Easy, sunshine.
He handed us an Ace bandage and a pair of socks - and naturally I commented on how it was the most expensive pair of socks in the history of ever. Not even a kind of smile.
(I've worked in an ER, and I totally get that it's stressful and depressing and whatever. But if you have a happy patient, is it super hard to lighten up just a teensy bit? Sheesh.)
All that said, I'm really happy it was nothing worse than a sprain - because Shawn doesn't do so well with sitting around doing nothing. However, he's got himself a nice pair of gimp sticks and is doing just fine for now. And it may sound totally weird, but I totally love him even more after this weekend. Not because we were faced with a life or death ankle sprain or anything - but simply because of his attitude about the whole thing. He was so happy the entire time, and even though I hated seeing him hurt - I loved every second I spent with him. Just one more reason I hope our kids take more after him, or else we're gonna have a bunch of pansy children.
Hope your weekend was bodacious.
(And you can thank the gimp for that fun adjective.)
If Toby were a cat, tell me he wouldn't look strikingly similar to this...
Munchkin cats?! Who knew?!
You are welcome for that random jewel.