Sometimes You Just Can't Catch A Break...And Sometimes You Can

Earlier this week,  I was on a private yacht with George Clooney and Denzel Washington.  The two of them started fighting over who would get to give me a massage, and as I tried to intervene, I slipped on the wet deck and broke my foot.

Okay, so what really happened is that I was out in the yard, slipped on some wet mulch, fell on my butt in the mud, and broke my foot.  But I like the first story much better.

I called Rose, who took me to the ER where they all know my name now. In fact, I'm pretty sure there is a wing named after me.

"Okay, we'll put you in the express ER," the nurse said after checking me in.

Express??  Woo Hoo!!! So that means I might actually be out of here before the next millennium?   Oh, Happy Day!!

Four hours later, I was fairly certain they did not truly understand the concept of express.  Glaciers during the ice age moved faster than these people.  A pregnant snail towing a semi moves faster than these people.  The line at the DMV moves faster than these people and I'm convinced I actually saw the real Elvis in line the last time I was there.  He isn't dead, just waiting to get his license renewed.

Eventually, a doctor mosied her way into the room.  "Does this hurt?" she asked, drilling her bony finger into my foot.

No.  It feels like a butterfly's kiss.  OF COURSE IT HURTS!!!  My foot looks like a science experiment gone horribly wrong and you are asking if it hurts when you jab it?  News Flash---It hurts when you look  at it!!!!!

"Did you take anything for the pain?  No?  Don't worry, we have a lot of good drugs here."

Two hours later, I got one measly motrin and and an ice pack. Her definition and mine of what constitutes "good drugs" was clearly not the same.

Really?? That is the best you can do?  What's the matter, didn't you have any Boo boo Bunnies in the pharmacy?  We live in a major metropolitan area.  Surely there is a street corner or alley nearby where you can score something, anything better than a Motrin!

Twenty minutes later, and waaaay before the highly advanced drug therapy they had dispensed kicked in, the guy from x-ray showed up with his portable unit.

"We're really busy this week," he informed me, "so I had to come to you.  Too bad you weren't here last week.  It was really quiet."

Gee, if I had known that, I would have broken my foot last week.  Maybe next time, you can email me and I'll schedule better.

"So which foot is it?" he asked, peering at my feet as though expecting them to be tattooed with a "Place x-ray machine here" sign.

Uh,  I'm pretty sure it's the one that's all swollen and discolored, but, hey, you're the medical professional, so I'll let you make the call. (sigh)

Another hundred years later, the doctor decided to breeze by and inform me that my foot was indeed broken.

Ya think???  I could have told you that about sixty seconds after the crash-landing in my front yard.  But since you're here, perhaps you can help me fill out the medicare forms, since I've become a senior citizen while waiting for you to come and state the obvious.

After yet another interminable wait during which Rose and I entertained ourselves by wondering what life on the outside was like (had robots taken over? were flying cars all the rage?  perhaps a condo in Florida had been replaced by a biosphere on the moon?), a young woman popped her head in and asked me my shoe size. 

"We'll get you a nice little beige bootie that you can wear till  you see an orthopedic," she assured me.

Fabulous.  I'll take something in a medium heel, size 6 1/2. Maybe a nice Jimmy Choo or Manolo.

The next woman showed up with a black, knee high boot that was the actual size of Italy.  What we had there was definitely a failure to communicate.

"Oh.  Um." she mumbled, trying to wrap the velcro fifty-six times around my foot to hold the boot on. "This is the smallest we have."

So who do you treat here, giants?  Were you expecting maybe Shaq to stop by, hoping to be signed to an endorsement deal?

"Well, you'll get a better one from the orthopedic," she chirped optimistically, while avoiding eye contact.  "Now, do you want me to get someone to wheel you out, or do you want to walk?"

How about you just give me an oar, and I can paddle out of here in the boat I am now wearing?

George, Denzel, where are you when I really need you?