“No she isn’t!” Annabelle scoffed when her mother told her I was in the emergency room because I had fallen off a scooter. Just the day before, she and I had sailed through Piedmont Park, exploring every trail as we talked and talked and talked.
To be honest, even as I sat watching HGTV, surrounded by people in their pajamas with barf bags and surgical masks, I couldn’t believe it either. Renting the scooter had been an impulse: it seemed to be waiting for me as we passed it on our way home from lunch. But even as I scooted merrily around the parking lot, zipping circles around my mom, Heidi, Bill, and Emily, I was feeling guilty about being somewhat antisocial. To compensate, I whizzed quickly ahead of them, and turned into a little utility lot at the high school to loop back around. Slowing down to make my u-turn, I hit the brake a bit too enthusiastically, and the scooter bucked, tossing me to the side. I sprawled to the asphalt, banging my ribs and shoulder on the shaft, landing on my hands. Jumping to my feet, I did an automatic check-- any witnesses? and self-check: knees? not even skinned. palms and elbows? scrape-free! --and jumped back on the scooter, confident that I was fine and no one had seen my tumble.
But the moment I rejoined my party, my secret was out. “I fell down!” I reported breathlessly. There was a bit of joking at my expense, which was certainly well deserved, and also some talk of past mishaps and the risks of riding these crazy-dangerous vehicles. With a laugh, I piloted my scooter away from the group and up the hill, parking it at the foot of the driveway. And it was as I waited that the adrenaline began to wear off, and the pain in my left hand? left wrist? announced itself more insistently.
Half an hour later, I confessed that a trip to the ER was definitely in my future. My instinct is always to wait and see, but it really, really hurt, and I ain’t no spring chicken. So, I paid the deductible and waited for the X-ray, the consult, and finally the treatment (an ace bandage and the advice to take 800 mg of an over the counter pain reliever.) Each step of the way, the health care professional helping me shared a tale of scooter mayhem, but always ended our interaction with, “I hope you feel better!”
As canned as their words were, I believed them every time, and I felt well cared for. At last it was time to go home. “Don’t let this stop you,” the PA told me as I signed the discharge papers. “Keep living your life!”
“I will!” I promised.
She smiled. “I hope you feel better!”
To be honest, even as I sat watching HGTV, surrounded by people in their pajamas with barf bags and surgical masks, I couldn’t believe it either. Renting the scooter had been an impulse: it seemed to be waiting for me as we passed it on our way home from lunch. But even as I scooted merrily around the parking lot, zipping circles around my mom, Heidi, Bill, and Emily, I was feeling guilty about being somewhat antisocial. To compensate, I whizzed quickly ahead of them, and turned into a little utility lot at the high school to loop back around. Slowing down to make my u-turn, I hit the brake a bit too enthusiastically, and the scooter bucked, tossing me to the side. I sprawled to the asphalt, banging my ribs and shoulder on the shaft, landing on my hands. Jumping to my feet, I did an automatic check-- any witnesses? and self-check: knees? not even skinned. palms and elbows? scrape-free! --and jumped back on the scooter, confident that I was fine and no one had seen my tumble.
But the moment I rejoined my party, my secret was out. “I fell down!” I reported breathlessly. There was a bit of joking at my expense, which was certainly well deserved, and also some talk of past mishaps and the risks of riding these crazy-dangerous vehicles. With a laugh, I piloted my scooter away from the group and up the hill, parking it at the foot of the driveway. And it was as I waited that the adrenaline began to wear off, and the pain in my left hand? left wrist? announced itself more insistently.
Half an hour later, I confessed that a trip to the ER was definitely in my future. My instinct is always to wait and see, but it really, really hurt, and I ain’t no spring chicken. So, I paid the deductible and waited for the X-ray, the consult, and finally the treatment (an ace bandage and the advice to take 800 mg of an over the counter pain reliever.) Each step of the way, the health care professional helping me shared a tale of scooter mayhem, but always ended our interaction with, “I hope you feel better!”
As canned as their words were, I believed them every time, and I felt well cared for. At last it was time to go home. “Don’t let this stop you,” the PA told me as I signed the discharge papers. “Keep living your life!”
“I will!” I promised.
She smiled. “I hope you feel better!”
Yikes! Glad it's just a sprain- hope it feels better soon!
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