I Find This Humerus

John and I traveled to Charleston last week and on the way, we stopped for lunch. On John’s last bite of his sandwich, he pulled out more than one hair-long and blonde. John is bald and I am of the dark variety. He took it back inside and they made him a new sandwich. I said, ‘I don’t think I’d want another one.’ I just threw up in mouth a little thinking about it.

When we were heading to the car, I stepped on uneven pavement where the handicap accessible ramp was and fell to the ground, twisting my ankle and slamming the knee of my other leg into the pavement. At first I thought my ankle was broken, but it just turned out to be my pride. A young guy ran over to help John get me off the ground and I wobbled into the passenger’s seat.

I ended up leaving Charleston that evening; John stayed to visit a friend who had just found out he has pancreatic cancer, but more on that another time. When I finally got home, after getting lost and being followed by a cop for miles- (It’s almost impossible for me to drive the speed limit, coupled with the fact that I was trying to read my cell GPS and at the same time, trying not to swerve and get pulled for what would appear to be drunk driving) -my ankle was so swollen and painful that I was literally walking like one of the zombies from ‘Walking Dead’; lurching my way toward the house. My dog, Dobby, wouldn’t come near me, I was scaring her so badly with my lurching and whining.

Turns out it was just a sprain, and now my skinned knee hurts worse than my ankle. I feel like I am a child again with scrapes, bruises, and bandaids on various parts of my body.

Yesterday, John came upstairs and this interchange took place: ‘your dad broke his arm.’ ‘Yeah, right. What is wrong now?’ ‘No, seriously, he broke it.’

Mind you, I’ve been staying here a month and haven’t seen or spoken to him. I grudgingly, but necessarily, went downstairs and my dad is sprawled on the floor, his left upper arm, the humerus, clearly broken, with his muscle knotted up near his shoulder.

John and I cut off his sweatshirt, put an ice pack over the break, covered him in blankets, and elevated his feet because he started shaking like a maraca, a sure sign of imminent shock.

The ambulance arrived, along with half the fire department and all the cops in Oriental (everything is a big deal in a little town, plus there are only two cops in the entire town). John rode in the ambulance and mom and I followed. It was like a parade leaving their subdivision, with us as the main float, waving to all the gawkers on the side of the rode as we drove away.

In the ER, his arm was eventually splinted, and they sent him home (we all tried to get them to admit him for JUST ONE NIGHT because he’s a big, fat, pain in the ass with only one semi-good arm now, but they didn’t want him there). He verbally abused his doctor and a few nurses; it was actually nice not to be the brunt of it for once, but they probably threw a fucking party after he left. ‘Break open the drug cabinet and hook up the O2!’

Sorry to all you wonderful ER people, but at least you only had 7 hours of it. Try a lifetime. If the paramedics ever show up here again, I'm going to be the one huffing that fentanyl they gave my dad.