Saturday I broke both ankles. And no, I do not know how I managed that. Apparently I’m quite talented. I broke both ankles, bruised my left leg, and scraped the knee on my right.
The best I can figure, I hit the ground and then rolled around heavily until I hit every possible body surface. Kind of like driving a car in a circle in a hail storm, which I’ve also done.
My niece rushed me to the emergency room nearest my apartment. It’s close enough that we could have walked there. Well, at least she could have.
Baylor, Scott and White built this boutique hospital around the corner and opened it just before the pandemic hit hard here. It’s hardly been used.
It’s small, fresh, clean, and cozier than their main hospital downtown. Most importantly, it has the most attractive doctors I’ve ever seen apart from Gray’s Anatomy. That’s purely serendipitous. I swear I didn’t scout it out ahead of time.
The best part is they are all over me. Not just the cute doctors, but the nurses, the inhalation therapists, the occupational therapist, the caseworker, and the physical therapist. It’s a hypochondriac’s dream.
I hear you saying, “Dudette, two broken ankles are real. You can’t hypochondriac those.” And you would be correct.
However, when I mention that my ribs hurt, the doctor immediately orders an x-ray. When I cough a little, an inhalation therapist rushes in. When one of them thought I was having some issues during the night, she bled in a line of oxygen, which I’m happy about because recent studies show that inhaling bariatric oxygen helps you look and stay younger. Pump me full of that.
When I mention a little pain, I have a plethora of options according to protocol, all of which I get to be informed about. There’s nothing a hypochondriac likes more than to learn more medical stuff.
I’m also getting lessons in wheelchair racing, or at least maneuvering. Racing is discouraged, unfortunately. I’m practicing lifting my body weight using only my arms. Goodbye bat wings, hello biceps and triceps. More pluses.
They bring me a banana boat pee thingie, which I’ve written about and linked below, bath wipes, tooth brush and tooth paste, deodorant, and a shower cap thingie filled with stuff that shampoos and “rinses” while you massage it for three minutes. Then you take it off, and voila, wet clean hair. All my physical needs are being met. I provide the comedy for emotional release. I can’t expect them to do everything.
When I ask my sister to bring my medications, the nurse says, “We have that here.” When I mention each medication she says, “We have that here in our pharmacy.” “ Yes, we have that one.” And they trot them all out to me. If having medications at your very fingertips on a call button isn’t a hypochondriac’s dream, I don’t know what is.
I’m hoping they keep me here as long as possible. I’m guessing the kitties won’t be much help when I’m back home.
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This post was previously published on MuddyUm.
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