This Is No Seattle Grace

I wouldn’t say I’m an especially clumsy person, but two weeks ago I was leaving a lunchtime appointment, focused on my iphone instead of the step in front of me, and twisted my ankle. Like fo real twisted my ankle and couldn’t walk. Cut to the ER waiting room that night around 10, where I’m sitting amongst my peers – grandma in her nightgown and slippers, ghetto teenager heaving into a plastic bag. McDreamy is decidedly not working this evening. Long story short, we leave 3 or 4 hours later with crutches, an ace bandage, a diagnosis of nothing more than a sprained ankle, and a bill for $260. Awesome.

Finally back home, I get in bed and go to sleep. For a few hours. But then I wake up in the middle of the night crazy nauseous and crazy whacked-out either from the Vicadin or the crazy-@$$ (pardon my language) pain. So what do I do? Well, naturally, I crawl on all fours to the bathroom where my mother finds me and says, “Amy, get your head out of the toilet.” As in, dude – you chose to face-plant in the toilet and your face and hair are all wet. Special, huh?

Long story short, an ER visit warrants a blog post, so here it is. And, for the record, I blame this incident completely on Laura, who told me a few weeks ago that all I needed was some big bodily injury like a broken leg. Hopefully this was me getting off easy!