I need a Jolt Cola or something, like, real bad.
Seriously, I’m sitting here at my desk in a complete state of zombieness, which is a state I just created in my mind, and I’m cold and I want to wrap up all Nanook-like in a blanket and just stare at people for awhile.
I do that a lot, by the way. When I have to be somewhere really early in the morning and I’m not awake, I’ll just huddle in a jacket and stare at people. And if people try to talk to me I hate them.
So, Sam had a volleyball game last night and even though the other team kicked our team’s collective ass in the first two games, in the third our girls woke up and started playing. And Sam was kicking all kinds of ass, hitting and blocking and hitting and blocking and so on.
Then she rolled her ankle.
Sammi has been an athlete for a long time and has had to endure her share of bench-warming, and during that time the following two rules of sports have become ingrained in her:
- Don’t cry.
- Don’t come out of the game.
So she got all Kerri Strug about the whole thing and limped up to the net and tried to go up for another block, but she couldn’t even put her weight on the ankle. The coach hadn’t noticed yet and she was insisting to the other team members that she was fine.
When she asked the coach to take her out and hobbled over to the bench in tears, we knew it was probably bad.
And by the time they got her shoe off, there was a lump the size of a baseball on her ankle. Totally grody.
So Mom and I took her to the hospital, where we spent several hours last night. In typical Sammi fashion, she was completely calm about the whole thing, and insisted that we take her through the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way so that she could get some food.
Best quote of the night, though, was when I called Ginny at home to tell her what was up.
Me: “Hey, I have some mildly bad news for you.”
Sam (from the back seat): Mild my ass, it fucking SUCKS!
Anyway. It’s not broken, which is good, but she’s on crutches and in a lot of pain and will definitely not be able to play this week, and probably not for the rest of the season.
But she’s a trooper.
Oh, and I’m a wuss, because when we were waiting in a triage area for her to be taken back for her x-ray, we were next to a curtained-off area where this little doll of a girl, only 3 years old, was really sick and had to be catheterized and to have her blood drawn for testing. And she was sobbing and asking for her mommy and completely freaking out – but guess who cried and freaked out more?
That’s right. Big Wuss Lorie.
To the point that the orderlies and nurses were comforting me. Then they went and talked to each other about the freak who lost her shit listening to a little girl cry.
My mom’s all, “I’m glad you didn’t decide to become a doctor.”
Yeah. Seriously. It was really traumatic for me.
So. Sam got Ace-bandaged and practiced walking on her crutches (and said “I’m such a RETARD” about 50 times) and we went home and watched Survivor, because we are losers with no life. And then I finally tumbled into bed at like 2 a.m. or something.
Hence my zombieness this morning.