Because, be honest here, everything is worse when it’s happening to you.
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I broke my ankle last week.
OK. That is a bit hyperbolic.
I only chipped the bone in my ankle.
Essentially, I fell into a hole. More specifically I fell into an erosion ditch. Well, I landed on a rock jumping over an erosion ditch. The rock was enormous. Well, large, kind of. And roundish.
OK! OK! I tripped and fell down.
But that is not the important part.
Essentially, this is a heartwarming tale of a man and his dog.
Truthfully, the story has little to do with the dog but I’ve found everyone loves a dog. Well, except cat people and they are just wrong in the head anyway.
There are several things I learned from the experience.
I wasn’t dead. I didn’t have to cut off my foot. I certainly didn’t need to kill the dog and crawl inside his body for warmth…and I had a York Peppermint Patty and dog treats in my pocket.
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First of all, my dog isn’t Lassie or Rin-tin-tin. There was no running off for help. Actually, he jumped on me because he thought I was playing. Then as I lay on the ground in agony he looked at me with his head half-cocked trying to figure out why I was on the ground. I can only imagine what he was thinking, “Aren’t you going to throw the stick again?”
I know what you are thinking – and yes – my dog uses contractions. He’s not completely stupid. He is simply a boy dog and often unaware of the needs of others.
I, however, was thinking, “Why can’t I get any fucking cell service so I can call someone to come and get me out of the god damn ditch?” Which lead to my second lesson: Verizon sucks.
So as I swallowed the bile in my throat from the pain, and as the ankle swelled against the boot, I went through the mental checklist. I wasn’t dead. I didn’t have to cut off my foot. I certainly didn’t need to kill the dog and crawl inside his body for warmth…and I had a York Peppermint Patty and dog treats in my pocket.
Therefore, I wasn’t going to starve.
On second thought, maybe that is why the dog jumped me. He smelled opportunity.
I just had to walk miles. Well, a half-mile. But it was an enormous hill. OK, a hill. Some people call it a slope. But it sloped upward.
Of course, it was almost dusk..and partly cloudy. It might rain…eventually.
Did I mention it was hilly?
Anyway, as I trudged up the mountain-like slope, it was sort-of steep – plus there were a lot of rocks – I thought of my grandfather’s sage advice: “Rub some dirt on it and walk it off. It’s too far from your heart to kill you.”
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That was the third lesson. Although a wise man, Ralph was not a doctor. Actually, he really wasn’t that wise either. I guess that is two lessons.
Anyway, as I trudged up the sort-of steep hill-like slope – plus there were a lot of rocks and kind of muddy – I realized that I had to ask for help.
I know – real men don’t ask for help – but after lying on the couch for an hour and taking pictures of my swelling ankle for posterity, and Google+, covered in ice and brambles I thought to myself: “You know Sean, that is the worst accident you’ve ever had.”
Well, worst accident I’ve had since I whacked my toe against the chair in the middle of the night last week. It was the little toe. On my dominant foot.
Perhaps my ankle was broken, I thought. Or it could be a tumor. Either way, better safe than sorry.
I lay in the backseat hoping for a quick death, or at least morphine. And wishing I lived in Colorado. Or Oregon. Or Belgium. For reasons.
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Driving was a problem. My wife was out of town. My son was at work. And my lazy goldendoodle refuses to learn how to drive. It’s the uppity poodle in him. Wants to be driven. Everywhere. So I called my parents and they picked me up.
We drove. Technically my dad drove. I lay in the backseat hoping for a quick death, or at least morphine. And wishing I lived in Colorado. Or Oregon. Or Belgium. For reasons.
If it helps, have you seen the 1968 movie Bullitt where Steve McQueen drives his 1968 390 V8 Ford Mustang GT fastback through the streets of San Francisco being chased by hitman?
Imagine the opposite.
Let me help. Imagine my dad, who suffers from night blindness and selective deafness, driving ten miles an hour under the speed limit while my overly protective, sixty-four year old, arthritic mother tries to type “urgent care” on her 2” x 3” smart phone.
There are a few problems with this – first her hands barely work on a good day. The second is my earlier lesson – Verizon sucks. (1G?! Seriously 1G?!)
I think there was crying. Just to be clear: her, not me. Maybe it was me. It’s all kind of blurry.
Imagine a bad Woody Allen movie. Truthfully, if you have seen a Woody Allen movie you don’t have to imagine. Except instead of being a Jewish mother, she is a lapsed Irish Catholic girl from the old school. And by lapsed I mean, she doesn’t go to church but decided to keep the guilt.
Did I mention, it was a Hyundai?
Yeah, it is pathetic.
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When we arrived at the hospital. Actually, it wasn’t a hospital. It was an ER. Well, mostly an urgent care, that is kind of like an ER right? Much to my surprise they didn’t lifeflight me to a hospital which would have made the story way more exciting.
When we arrive at the Urgent Care, I use my mother’s walker because I can’t walk, at all, and I figure it is more dignified than the wheel chair my dad wanted to use.
In hindsight, it is not.
So another important life, lesson, wheelchairs are cooler than your mother’s walker. Also, “walker” implies some walking. Something I did not consider prior to using the “walker”.
Of all indignities I must endure I’ll add my dear mother loudly calling over the receptionist to look at the cell phone photos of my swollen, throbbing ankle. Because my swollen, throbbing ankle wasn’t interesting enough to observe. My mom wants me to show a stranger a slideshow.
Did I mention my ankle is swollen and throbbing. I hurt like hell but now I’m trying to politely provide a slide show for a stranger. All the time wondering why the hell pot isn’t legal and available.
And where the hell is my morphine drip?
Of course, I’m trying to take care of my mother’s feelings by saying as pleasantly as possible through gritted teeth, “Mom, thanks. Please stop helping.” It didn’t come out that way.
I know.
How?
I think it is a conspiracy by mothers to keep sons indebted to them for childbirth.
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I know because I’m the one getting dirty looks from the nearly full waiting room of other mothers with their sniffly toddlers. I’m the one with the walker but everyone looks at me like I’m beating my mother with it in a Wal-Mart parking lot. The receptionist condescendingly responds with, “Well, mothers are mothers.”
I think it is a conspiracy by mothers to keep sons indebted to them for childbirth.
I felt like a badger with a paw in a steel trap. At that moment, eating my foot off sounded like a reasonable and viable option. In hindsight, perhaps my grandfather was wise.
None-the-less, as I was sitting in the observation room waiting for the doctor I was reminded of the most important lesson of the day: when no one else is available to help, you can still count on family.
But next time, I’ll probably have mom wait in the car.
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Photo: Getty Images