Ah, the highly anticipated stories you've all been waiting on (for approximately an hour now). Stories 2-4. That's right, I am attempting the impossible today--posting 3 stories in one post. Do you think she can do it? Will you be sitting here all day??? Could this post be the longest in the history of the world!??????
Nah. I'll be good.
Jumping right in, story 2: That One Time I Was a Super Hero
That's right, people, I was a super hero at one point in time. Ok, so maybe I'm exaggerating that a bit, kind of like the whole Susan premise. Whatever.
In the fall of 2006 I was playing volleyball pretty hard core with my high school team. I was the setter, so my wrists were slowly but surely giving out. During Christmas break of that same year I went to see an orthopedic doctor about it all, and he told me I needed to have surgery because...well, long story. Anyway, my wrist was jacked up and I needed to have surgery. Ok, no big deal.
My surgery was scheduled for the end of January, but about a week and a half after my appointment they called and said they could move it up...to January 3rd. I said sure, and that was that. After the surgery was over, I was drugged and nauseated, but my wrist felt okay. Turns out, they had to cut out a large cyst and that was hurting the most. No big deal though, so I had a stupid ugly scar on my hand? I should note that even at that time I was thrilled it wasn't my left hand because of the one-day wedding pics I'd take. Yeah, wedding-obsessed much? Anyway...
It only took 2 weeks of physical therapy until I returned to tennis...much to my mom's displeasure. I promised her I wouldn't play with my right hand, though, but would instead play with my left hand--which I'd never even attempted.
On the first day back to practice, my tennis coach was trying out positions. I had previously been in the #1 and #2 seed, alternating with my doubles partner. On that particular day, there were new people on the court, people I'd never seen. One such girl was being quite vocal about her abilities, and when I first got out on the court, she started making fun of me. Yeah, making fun of a girl who'd just had surgery. And sure, she didn't know it, but still. I was right-handed, playing with my left hand, and she was making fun of me.
Being the competitive person that I am (and have always been), I told my tennis coach that I'd play her, even though I didn't really need to be playing anyone. She told me that I didn't have to play anyone, that I could "earn my spot" when I returned completely. I said no, I would play today. Left handed.
Well, to make this already long story a little less long, I played. Oh, and I won. So what super power was it that I possessed that day? The ability to magically make my left hand as amazing as my right, without any practice whatsoever.
You're welcome for that story.
Story 3: The Day I Scarred a Medical Professional For Life
In June of 2008 I had my second wrist surgery. It was a dark time in my life, really. You see, I didn't quite come out of this surgery the same way. 1, I had 14 little marks on my hand from all the cutting they had to do. 14. I was flipping out about it, talking about how ugly my hand was and how much it hurt. After a less-than-conscious ride back from the surgery center, I settled into my spot on the couch. I expected to bounce back just like I'd done from my previous wrist surgery.
NOT SO!
Days one and two were ok, though not great. Day three, though, was quite a different story. Day three was the day that I actually had to get out of the house and go see my new physician--who was only taking new patients for a brief window in time and my appointment was scheduled for that day. Since I'd been feeling ok, I thought that it would be fine. Little did I know that I'd have quite the unfortunate reaction to the anesthesia they gave me, and I'd be...wait for it...puking the entire morning leading up to my appointment.
When I got to my appointment, he was thrilled to see that he actually got to see a new patient that was sick. He told me that normally he felt bad about his new patient appointments because people were healthy and he still had to charge them. So, he gave me a shot (and was too happy about it, I still say), and I was on my way.......to my first physical therapy appointment.
I should say this: the shot he gave me was to make me stop throwing up. It was also highly sleep-inducing. So when I arrived at my physical therapy appointment, I wasn't throwing up....because I wasn't fully there.
When I went back to see the lady, she couldn't quite understand. She tried to move my wrist around a little bit, but I just wasn't having it. Though nearly 21 years old, I was crying like a baby and telling her it hurt too much to even move. Then, I plopped myself down on her couch and starting drifting in and out of sleep while she tried to ask me questions and make me do more exercises. Finally, I freaked her out so much that she got my mom because I was conked out on the couch and not moving.
At least we learned a valuable lesson that day: those shots work well. Oh, and also don't go to physical therapy on so many drugs that you're *legally* stoned out of your mind.
Finally, story 4: Why My Sister is Amazing
Since we're on the theme of surgeries and such, I must tell you a quick one about my sister Valerie. During my junior year at Freed, she was working there as an accountant. Late one night I called her, and even though she was in bed, she got up in order to go to the emergency room with me because I'd broken my arm.
Now let me say this: at the time, *no one* thought that my arm was broken. I take that back, everyone who was at the basketball game and saw me run into a wall and then fall on the ground in severe agony thought it was broken. But, for the sake of this story, we'll just say that *no one* thought it was broken. No, it was sprained. And, since sprained, said wrist shouldn't be hurting as much as it was. 3 advil should probably do the trick.
Dumb.
Anyway, said ride to the emergency room is both dramatic and painful, but Valerie was the voice of reason. She instructed me not to call my parents, as they would worry and since it was after 11pm, a phone call would likely give them a heart attack. Good one, Val. So here we go, on our way to the ER and no one in my fam knows about it. Oh well.
We sit in the (super wonderful and not at all trashy) ER in Jackson for about 4 hours, then find out that...oh yeah, it's broken. Despite what *no one* said, it was broken. Valerie and I exchanged knowing looks as the doctor confirmed what we already knew, and after a few prescriptions were written, we were on our way.
At the CVS in Jackson we sat outside and talked about life....and how obnoxious certain parts of life are, like when people don't believe you've broken your arm when you actually have and then ultimately have to wear a big pink cast on your arm while you're at the beach and while you sing in Makin Music. But whatever. It was a good, clarity-inducing moment that was both necessary and hilarious.
Oh, and I should mention that Val also took me to get a pedicure the day I got my cast on so that I could at least have pretty toe nails (that matched my cast, mind you) at the beach. Best. Sister. Ever.
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