| Humor Non-Fiction posted May 15, 2009 | Chapters: |
...31 32 -33- 34... 
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More of my family mishaps during the holidays
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
How to Make a Holiday Memorable
by BethShelby
Holidays have never gone smoothly for my family. It is a time when Murphy's Law always decides to kick into gear. As if the stress of preparation isn't enough, something bad is sure to happen, and the Christmas of ninety-five was no exception. I'm a last minute person, but you'd think with our track record, I would have learned to schedule in those emergencies that go with my family's special days. Maybe in spite of everything, I'm an optimist and I want to believe things will fall neatly in place. I guess I will never learn.
I awoke from a sound sleep at four a.m. to the piercing wail of one of our fire detector alarms. The sound appeared to be coming from an unused bedroom. My husband's feet hit the floor at the same time as mine.
"Run downstairs," he ordered, "and see if anything's on fire, while I check up here."
Alarmed but still groggy from sleep, I hit the stairs running. Four steps from the bottom, I tripped and tumbled the rest of the way to the floor. My leg twisted, and a shocking pain shot through my ankle. I knew instantly it was broken. I lay in a whimpering heap on the floor, shaking from the chill of the room. Meanwhile, my husband had determined that the fire alarm had malfunctioned, and there was no real cause for alarm. He had managed to open it and extract the battery to stop the deafening noise, but by then, it was me that was making the noise.
It was Christmas Eve, and as usual, I was not even close to being ready for the holiday. Since I had worked on the previous day, I hadn't started to prepare food for the big meal I was planning. There would be ten family members plus several friends, whom I had invited to join us. My daughter and her husband were due to arrive that night from Florida to spend a few days. I still had cleaning to do, plus a last minute trip to the grocery store. I had counted on having all day to get everything together.
After crawling back up the stairs on my knees, with one leg suspended at a forty-five degree angle, and tears streaming down my cheeks, I managed to get dressed. Evan did his best to help, and eventually, he got me back down the stairs and to the car.
The temperature was in the process of hitting a new record that day. It was five degrees below zero. Maybe that doesn't seem cold to those who live in the northern states, but for the sunny south, it was rare indeed. It took a good thirty minutes for Evan to scrape the ice off the windshield while I shivered inside the car.
Since time was in short supply, we decided to go to the nearest hospital. It was one of the smallest hospitals, and I assumed the least busy. Surely, they would be able to handle a broken ankle. Boy, was I ever wrong. Unfortunately, there was only one doctor on duty in the emergency room. We arrived at the same time as a heart attack victim. Naturally, he was in more distress than I, and the doctor's attention was called for there. My insurance was processed, and I was given a wheelchair and told to wait.
Two hours later, they took me to X-ray. That's when things got a bit interesting. The X-ray personnel became very excited over the fact that X-rays of my heel seemed to show a large piece of metal embedded in it. I think they assumed it was either an alien transplant or a railroad stake. The fact that the ankle was indeed broken was only of minor consequence as far as they were concerned. We never figured that one out, but two years later, when I broke the same ankle again, this time on Christmas Day, the x-ray didn't show this unusual phenomena. I guess the Mother Ship must have zoomed down and had its big-eyed henchmen extract the object while I was sleeping.
But back to the story at hand, I sat for another three hours until the doctor was finally free to look at my ankle. It was noon by that time. The poor guy with the heart attack had passed on. The doctor spent about five minutes telling me that he wasn't qualified to set my ankle, but he would have someone get on the phone and contact an orthopedic surgeon. The only one available happened to be in surgery, but he would be free around two o'clock. So, I was left to sit another two hours.
They put me in a little curtained off section. I was starving because I had not eaten since the night before, and I was getting very impatient. Barely out of my range of vision, the patient charts were placed on a shelf in the hallway. I knew mine had to be one of them. Each time a nurse walked by to pick up a chart, I prayed it would be mine. By stretching really hard, I could almost see how many charts were left. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I stretched a tad too far. The wheelchair scooted backwards and I slid forward and crashed to the floor. If you aren't getting enough attention in a hospital emergency room, this is an excellent way to get it. The chair banged into to a table upsetting a metal pan and suddenly, I had five nurses and the doctor at my service.
After finding out I was no worse off for the spill, and probably wasn't planning to sue, they assigned someone on the staff to keep an eye on me. I was, at least, a bit less bored. Finally the doctor arrived. He was rude, ill mannered and not at all pleased to be working on Christmas Eve. He cracked a few tasteless jokes in which he mentioned "the stiff" in the next room. Then, to cap it off, he had the nerve to insinuate that if I had not been overweight, I would have been less clumsy, and probably wouldn't have fallen in the first place.
He constructed a plaster cast that I had to wear for the next six weeks. It was four o'clock that afternoon before we got home. Many things were left undone that Christmas, but with the help of a crutch, I managed to cook a decent meal. Everyone pitched in with the cleanup and sympathized with me over my misfortune.
The day after Christmas, my four children and their spouses and friends all decided to go skiing. When they returned home that evening, my son-in-law from Florida came limping in on a crutch. He had managed to break his own ankle in the same spot as mine. You would have thought after all I went through, I would have been able to play the sympathy card a little longer without having to share, but it was not to be.
During the next six weeks, I stumbled around wearing what felt like a tree attached to my leg. I wasn't allowed to shower and my leg itched and developed a foul odor. At the end of the six weeks when I returned to the doctor, he informed me if I hadn't made such a big deal out of the whole thing, he could have put a removable boot on my ankle that would have worked just as well. It was all I could do to keep from crowning him with my crutch.
I shouldn't have been surprised at the turn of events. It is only par for the course in this family. I guess we just don't feel those days will be memorable enough on their own. There is nothing like a little trauma to make sure the day will never be forgotten.
Holidays have never gone smoothly for my family. It is a time when Murphy's Law always decides to kick into gear. As if the stress of preparation isn't enough, something bad is sure to happen, and the Christmas of ninety-five was no exception. I'm a last minute person, but you'd think with our track record, I would have learned to schedule in those emergencies that go with my family's special days. Maybe in spite of everything, I'm an optimist and I want to believe things will fall neatly in place. I guess I will never learn.
I awoke from a sound sleep at four a.m. to the piercing wail of one of our fire detector alarms. The sound appeared to be coming from an unused bedroom. My husband's feet hit the floor at the same time as mine.
"Run downstairs," he ordered, "and see if anything's on fire, while I check up here."
Alarmed but still groggy from sleep, I hit the stairs running. Four steps from the bottom, I tripped and tumbled the rest of the way to the floor. My leg twisted, and a shocking pain shot through my ankle. I knew instantly it was broken. I lay in a whimpering heap on the floor, shaking from the chill of the room. Meanwhile, my husband had determined that the fire alarm had malfunctioned, and there was no real cause for alarm. He had managed to open it and extract the battery to stop the deafening noise, but by then, it was me that was making the noise.
It was Christmas Eve, and as usual, I was not even close to being ready for the holiday. Since I had worked on the previous day, I hadn't started to prepare food for the big meal I was planning. There would be ten family members plus several friends, whom I had invited to join us. My daughter and her husband were due to arrive that night from Florida to spend a few days. I still had cleaning to do, plus a last minute trip to the grocery store. I had counted on having all day to get everything together.
After crawling back up the stairs on my knees, with one leg suspended at a forty-five degree angle, and tears streaming down my cheeks, I managed to get dressed. Evan did his best to help, and eventually, he got me back down the stairs and to the car.
The temperature was in the process of hitting a new record that day. It was five degrees below zero. Maybe that doesn't seem cold to those who live in the northern states, but for the sunny south, it was rare indeed. It took a good thirty minutes for Evan to scrape the ice off the windshield while I shivered inside the car.
Since time was in short supply, we decided to go to the nearest hospital. It was one of the smallest hospitals, and I assumed the least busy. Surely, they would be able to handle a broken ankle. Boy, was I ever wrong. Unfortunately, there was only one doctor on duty in the emergency room. We arrived at the same time as a heart attack victim. Naturally, he was in more distress than I, and the doctor's attention was called for there. My insurance was processed, and I was given a wheelchair and told to wait.
Two hours later, they took me to X-ray. That's when things got a bit interesting. The X-ray personnel became very excited over the fact that X-rays of my heel seemed to show a large piece of metal embedded in it. I think they assumed it was either an alien transplant or a railroad stake. The fact that the ankle was indeed broken was only of minor consequence as far as they were concerned. We never figured that one out, but two years later, when I broke the same ankle again, this time on Christmas Day, the x-ray didn't show this unusual phenomena. I guess the Mother Ship must have zoomed down and had its big-eyed henchmen extract the object while I was sleeping.
But back to the story at hand, I sat for another three hours until the doctor was finally free to look at my ankle. It was noon by that time. The poor guy with the heart attack had passed on. The doctor spent about five minutes telling me that he wasn't qualified to set my ankle, but he would have someone get on the phone and contact an orthopedic surgeon. The only one available happened to be in surgery, but he would be free around two o'clock. So, I was left to sit another two hours.
They put me in a little curtained off section. I was starving because I had not eaten since the night before, and I was getting very impatient. Barely out of my range of vision, the patient charts were placed on a shelf in the hallway. I knew mine had to be one of them. Each time a nurse walked by to pick up a chart, I prayed it would be mine. By stretching really hard, I could almost see how many charts were left. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I stretched a tad too far. The wheelchair scooted backwards and I slid forward and crashed to the floor. If you aren't getting enough attention in a hospital emergency room, this is an excellent way to get it. The chair banged into to a table upsetting a metal pan and suddenly, I had five nurses and the doctor at my service.
After finding out I was no worse off for the spill, and probably wasn't planning to sue, they assigned someone on the staff to keep an eye on me. I was, at least, a bit less bored. Finally the doctor arrived. He was rude, ill mannered and not at all pleased to be working on Christmas Eve. He cracked a few tasteless jokes in which he mentioned "the stiff" in the next room. Then, to cap it off, he had the nerve to insinuate that if I had not been overweight, I would have been less clumsy, and probably wouldn't have fallen in the first place.
He constructed a plaster cast that I had to wear for the next six weeks. It was four o'clock that afternoon before we got home. Many things were left undone that Christmas, but with the help of a crutch, I managed to cook a decent meal. Everyone pitched in with the cleanup and sympathized with me over my misfortune.
The day after Christmas, my four children and their spouses and friends all decided to go skiing. When they returned home that evening, my son-in-law from Florida came limping in on a crutch. He had managed to break his own ankle in the same spot as mine. You would have thought after all I went through, I would have been able to play the sympathy card a little longer without having to share, but it was not to be.
During the next six weeks, I stumbled around wearing what felt like a tree attached to my leg. I wasn't allowed to shower and my leg itched and developed a foul odor. At the end of the six weeks when I returned to the doctor, he informed me if I hadn't made such a big deal out of the whole thing, he could have put a removable boot on my ankle that would have worked just as well. It was all I could do to keep from crowning him with my crutch.
I shouldn't have been surprised at the turn of events. It is only par for the course in this family. I guess we just don't feel those days will be memorable enough on their own. There is nothing like a little trauma to make sure the day will never be forgotten.
I awoke from a sound sleep at four a.m. to the piercing wail of one of our fire detector alarms. The sound appeared to be coming from an unused bedroom. My husband's feet hit the floor at the same time as mine.
"Run downstairs," he ordered, "and see if anything's on fire, while I check up here."
Alarmed but still groggy from sleep, I hit the stairs running. Four steps from the bottom, I tripped and tumbled the rest of the way to the floor. My leg twisted, and a shocking pain shot through my ankle. I knew instantly it was broken. I lay in a whimpering heap on the floor, shaking from the chill of the room. Meanwhile, my husband had determined that the fire alarm had malfunctioned, and there was no real cause for alarm. He had managed to open it and extract the battery to stop the deafening noise, but by then, it was me that was making the noise.
It was Christmas Eve, and as usual, I was not even close to being ready for the holiday. Since I had worked on the previous day, I hadn't started to prepare food for the big meal I was planning. There would be ten family members plus several friends, whom I had invited to join us. My daughter and her husband were due to arrive that night from Florida to spend a few days. I still had cleaning to do, plus a last minute trip to the grocery store. I had counted on having all day to get everything together.
After crawling back up the stairs on my knees, with one leg suspended at a forty-five degree angle, and tears streaming down my cheeks, I managed to get dressed. Evan did his best to help, and eventually, he got me back down the stairs and to the car.
The temperature was in the process of hitting a new record that day. It was five degrees below zero. Maybe that doesn't seem cold to those who live in the northern states, but for the sunny south, it was rare indeed. It took a good thirty minutes for Evan to scrape the ice off the windshield while I shivered inside the car.
Since time was in short supply, we decided to go to the nearest hospital. It was one of the smallest hospitals, and I assumed the least busy. Surely, they would be able to handle a broken ankle. Boy, was I ever wrong. Unfortunately, there was only one doctor on duty in the emergency room. We arrived at the same time as a heart attack victim. Naturally, he was in more distress than I, and the doctor's attention was called for there. My insurance was processed, and I was given a wheelchair and told to wait.
Two hours later, they took me to X-ray. That's when things got a bit interesting. The X-ray personnel became very excited over the fact that X-rays of my heel seemed to show a large piece of metal embedded in it. I think they assumed it was either an alien transplant or a railroad stake. The fact that the ankle was indeed broken was only of minor consequence as far as they were concerned. We never figured that one out, but two years later, when I broke the same ankle again, this time on Christmas Day, the x-ray didn't show this unusual phenomena. I guess the Mother Ship must have zoomed down and had its big-eyed henchmen extract the object while I was sleeping.
But back to the story at hand, I sat for another three hours until the doctor was finally free to look at my ankle. It was noon by that time. The poor guy with the heart attack had passed on. The doctor spent about five minutes telling me that he wasn't qualified to set my ankle, but he would have someone get on the phone and contact an orthopedic surgeon. The only one available happened to be in surgery, but he would be free around two o'clock. So, I was left to sit another two hours.
They put me in a little curtained off section. I was starving because I had not eaten since the night before, and I was getting very impatient. Barely out of my range of vision, the patient charts were placed on a shelf in the hallway. I knew mine had to be one of them. Each time a nurse walked by to pick up a chart, I prayed it would be mine. By stretching really hard, I could almost see how many charts were left. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I stretched a tad too far. The wheelchair scooted backwards and I slid forward and crashed to the floor. If you aren't getting enough attention in a hospital emergency room, this is an excellent way to get it. The chair banged into to a table upsetting a metal pan and suddenly, I had five nurses and the doctor at my service.
After finding out I was no worse off for the spill, and probably wasn't planning to sue, they assigned someone on the staff to keep an eye on me. I was, at least, a bit less bored. Finally the doctor arrived. He was rude, ill mannered and not at all pleased to be working on Christmas Eve. He cracked a few tasteless jokes in which he mentioned "the stiff" in the next room. Then, to cap it off, he had the nerve to insinuate that if I had not been overweight, I would have been less clumsy, and probably wouldn't have fallen in the first place.
He constructed a plaster cast that I had to wear for the next six weeks. It was four o'clock that afternoon before we got home. Many things were left undone that Christmas, but with the help of a crutch, I managed to cook a decent meal. Everyone pitched in with the cleanup and sympathized with me over my misfortune.
The day after Christmas, my four children and their spouses and friends all decided to go skiing. When they returned home that evening, my son-in-law from Florida came limping in on a crutch. He had managed to break his own ankle in the same spot as mine. You would have thought after all I went through, I would have been able to play the sympathy card a little longer without having to share, but it was not to be.
During the next six weeks, I stumbled around wearing what felt like a tree attached to my leg. I wasn't allowed to shower and my leg itched and developed a foul odor. At the end of the six weeks when I returned to the doctor, he informed me if I hadn't made such a big deal out of the whole thing, he could have put a removable boot on my ankle that would have worked just as well. It was all I could do to keep from crowning him with my crutch.
I shouldn't have been surprised at the turn of events. It is only par for the course in this family. I guess we just don't feel those days will be memorable enough on their own. There is nothing like a little trauma to make sure the day will never be forgotten.
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