** I know several of you requested a reprint of my Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe for Halloween. I had planned to post it today. Due to the insanity that was my evening last night, I will be posting it for you tomorrow instead. I promise! **
I've had a very high stress week. (Maybe even month if you take into account our Swine filled house!) Last night I was cooking a really nice dinner … chicken kiev if you must know, when suddenly it sounded like a herd of elephants had entered the house. I glanced at the clock. It was 40 minutes before I expected PR to walk in from football practice.
A minute later a group of high school players noisily appeared in my kitchen carrying PR. They seemed to fill the entire room.
"What's wrong? What happened?" I asked, alarmed.
They tossed PR on the couch none too gently. He winced. I could tell he was fighting back tears. PR has sat through 25 stitches and not winced one bit. This did not look good.
"It's XXXX's fault!" one of the football players proudly told me.
I looked at XXXX.
He looked down at the ground sheepishly.
"I tackled him," he said. I could tell he felt horrible.
Tackling PR in practice is what he is supposed to do. I know that.
I looked at my son. I took in his cantaloupe sized purple ankle. I thanked the players for getting him home and into the house as they left.
PR informed me, "I was going this way, but when XXXX tackled me, my ankle went that way. The coach told me I should walk on it, but I can't."
WTF, Mr. Coach??
I propped PR's ankle up on some pillows. It did not look good. I put a bag of frozen peas around his ankle. (Frozen peas conform around an injury better than ice. Not that I'm an injury expert at this point in my life or anything.) I got him two Advil to take and I texted The Torturer.
"How can I tell if PR's ankle is broken or sprained?" I asked.
"You can't. You need an x-ray," he promptly texted me back. The Torturer then proceeded to give me some first aid tips for immediate treatment. Sometimes I actually like that man, but please don't ever tell him. Really, he'd get a big head if he thought I liked him even a little bit.
I gave PR a plate of chicken kiev and veggies because food trumps pain with teen boys every time. He inhaled a full plate of food in less than five minutes. Then we were on our way to Urgent Care. Yes, this was our second trip for this football season. I think it might mean that boys who are 5'8" and only 115 pounds are really not cut out for football (no matter how fast the coach might think they are.)
It was not a fun drive. PR was really hurting. This is how mothers age … watching your kid in pain is guaranteed to give a person wrinkles.
At Urgent Care I helped PR hop into the waiting room. Unlike the big enormous football players, I'm not able to lift him. The staff promptly brought him a wheelchair.
As it turns out, the doctor on call had two sons go to the same high school where PR goes. Both of them also played football there several years ago. I patiently listened to the doc proudly go on about what a great football program the school has. He looked at PR's ankle and informed us he was "out for the season." I already had figured that much out on my own.
Then I waited for PR to be wheeled to and from the x-ray room. As I waited I cringed at the thought of having to inform the high school baseball coach about PR's injury. Baseball is PR's main sport. The baseball coach will not be happy. Would any of you like to volunteer to inform him PR is out for the next several weeks? I would really appreciate it.
Eventually the doc returned to show me "an area of concern" on the x-ray. "A possible fracture, but it's hard to tell because it's near his growth plate," he informed me. He said he would need a radiologist to confirm it for him, but there was no question PR has, at minimum, a bad sprain.
I informed him I would prefer to take the x-rays with me for my orthopedic to take a look at in the morning vs. waiting an entire day on the radiologist.
"You won't be able to get in to see an orthopedic that fast," he informed me.
"Yes, I will," I replied.
He looked at me skeptically and asked who my orthopedic is.
I informed him he's Dr. BigWig.
"He's way too busy to see you that soon," he countered.
"He'll see us in the morning," I replied. I was growing weary of this debate.
I did not have the desire or energy to explain about my car accident, my six surgeries or the fact that I'm Dr. BigWig's personal career challenge and friend. Dr. BigWig loves me, is a regular 24 reader, and has pretty much adopted me as a member of his office.
Dr. BigWig will see my injured son.
"Your son is going to need some physical therapy in a few weeks," the doctor added.
"I've got it covered," I informed him nicely.
(At that very minute, a text message from The Torturer arrived on my phone asking how PR was doing.)
The doc looked at me questioningly. I know he probably thinks I'm a Very Important Person With Lots of Medical Connections. I was too stressed out to explain. And really, it would take an hour to explain, wouldn't it?
The doc splinted PR's ankle and brought him a pair of crutches. Forty five minutes later we were home. I was wondering how in the world to get him out of his pads. Also, how in the hell to get him in the shower when he's splinted and can't put any weight on his foot? He was a few hours into practice when he got hurt … the kid needed a shower.
Me? I needed a glass few bottles of wine.
Also? Thank God he's out of football for the rest of the season. There's only so much a mother can take.
© Twenty Four At Heart