You might be surprised to learn that I am a chronic complainer. I have a tendency to exaggerate a bit. And on top of that, I suffer from hypochondria. Naturally, I assume that everyone is like me because, let's face it, who wouldn't want to be EXACTLY like me? So when my daughters come to me with some little ailment or the other, I tend to ignore their described degree of suffering. Suffice to say...I do NOT look good in this following story.
A more-than-competent snowboarder, Sydney had hit the slopes last week with some friends. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the slopes hit Sydney. Stranded mid-mountain, Sydney realized that she couldn't bear weight on either foot and was considering her options. Butt-boarding was quickly ruled out by ski patrol who wrestled her onto a snow sled and whisked her away to the first aid station. A text alerted me to the situation as Syd was being driven home, Sprained both ankles. Evie is driving me home. Her dad will follow with our truck. Of course I panicked. What good mother wouldn't? I frantically texted back, Leave the truck there. DO NOT have Evie's dad drive it! Sydney knows that no one outside the family should EVER be granted access to the truck. Despite my daily threats, the interior of the truck remains condemnably filthy. Empty Yoberry containers, paper plates, forks, and assorted wrappers carpet the floor. The last time I drove Ranger, I ended up with pulverized Pop-Tarts ground into the bottom of my boots. So when Evie pulled up in front of the house with the aforementioned injured party, I was mortified to see her dad pull in right after with the garbage truck. I did not greet my prodigal daughter with open arms as she was carried through my door.
After graciously thanking her good Samaritans and then unceremoniously shoving them out the door, I ripped Sydney's layers of winter wear off of her while battling my inner demons. Could she be ANY more inconsiderate? My birthday is a mere day away! Was I going to have to make sub-plans for this ingrate? And what about her waitressing job? So much for earning money for college! What is she going to do now? Mooch off her mom? I watched as she attempted to stand using her borrowed crutches. Why did the Mehlenbachers give those to her, I wondered. Way to enable her, I thought as she flopped over.
Savannah and I dragged her into the living room, propped up her legs and generously applied two bags of frozen mixed vegetables to her swollen ankles. Sydney whined when I was unable to accommodate her requests for an Ace bandage or medication. "This isn't a hospital dispensary," I snarled, pouring her some OJ and mixing in a liberal dose of "Kool-Aid" to soothe her pain and shut her up. To make it festive, I added a drink umbrella. She soon dozed off in a Kool-Aid-induced stupor so I stationed myself at the onpposite end of the couch for the night in case she needed anything (I'm not a complete monster). She awoke needing to use the facilities and unable to stand on either leg. "Here," I said heroically, "climb on my back." Let's just say that that didn't work out very well. Plan B made clever utilization of a wheeled office chair.
The pain did not magically disappear in the morning as I'd hoped. I decided what to do in my customary fashion by screaming accusations at my husband for approximately twenty minutes. Once I'd exhausted myself, he told me to go to work and he'd take Syd to the emergency room. Great, I thought, the medical community would explain to my daughter that she'd simply twisted her foot a bit, wrap her ankles in magical Ace bandages and our lives would go back to normal and I'd make Sydney clean out the truck immediately. Two hours later, I received another text: Left foot sprained, two bones broken in right foot. Oh no, I thought, there's no way I'm coming out of this one looking good.
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