Maybe there are some things that should've retired in 1992--Hypercolor t-shirts, poufy Adidas jackets--and me on rollerskates.
Within the first five minutes, I was breakdancing on the rink, but not the cool kind. I fell. And crashed with my full body weight on my left arm as the seven-year-olds whizzed by. Almost immediately, it swelled up like the arms of Popeye, but in this weird, mangled way. Not pretty.
My sister drove me to the ER and I sat in the world's most uncomfortable chairs for a half hour (which actually isn't that bad!) in the worst physical pain of my life.
We then headed to X-ray. This lady walked out of the x-ray room holding her arm just like me.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
"My horse kicked me," she replied. "Gosh--doing those x-rays hurt like crazy--and your arm looks a lot worse than mine."
Hmm...just what I wanted to hear. Thank God for His favor and strength. The x-ray technician was really nice. He told me, "Okay, here's the direction your arm needs to go," and then he motioned, helped me to move the arm slowly and used shoeboxes to help stabilize it. I'm not going to lie--moving my Popeye arm hurt. But I survived without screaming or tears.
"You are seriously my star patient of the day," he said. He gave me a pillow to prop up my arm and led me to an ER room. It was so great to lean back on the cot and rest a minute, my arm propped up (finally!). My spirit was up, the color returned to my face and I was starting to feel better.
Then the doctor walked in.
"Hi. I'm Dr. McHottie," he said (okay--he didn't really say that, but I believe in doctor-patient confidentiality).
He smiled at me with these warm brown eyes, dimples and perfect teeth. "How did you hurt your arm?"
So then I had to tell the whole sad story to McHottie. But he was really cool and oozed confidence. We laughed, joked back and forth and had this whole witty banter thing going on...like this spark.
Then he told me the news, "You broke and dislocated your arm. And we're going to reposition it back into place."
I started to have this vision of doctors popping dislocated bones into place on shows like "ER" and "Little House on the Prairie" with the patients screaming in the background. And McHottie sensed my fear.
"Don't worry--you'll be asleep. You won't feel a thing," he smiled like some guy on a toothpaste commercial and brushed his hand along my arm (the good one).
My family prayed for me before the anesthesiologist (aka miracle worker) did his thing.
When I woke up, my sister and Mom started talking, "Umm...we thought you might want to know," Mom started, "While you were out, you kept going on and on about the doctor."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah," Hannah chimed in, "You kept gushing on and on about the guy."
Even on morphine, I was completely mortified. The color drained from my face again.
"No, not really," Hannah broke the joke. "I think you were talking about work. You kept using all of these big words I've never heard before." Whew!
When the doctor returned to check on me, he asked, "Can you make an 'OK' sign?"
Thankfully, I did.
"Umm...I meant with your other hand. You know...the one in the sling," he smiled.
So now Dr. McHottie will remember me as Miss McIdiot. I think my ego is broken, too. :)
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