Slip Slidin' Away

Slipper slides scare me.
Several years ago (okay, a couple of decades ago), my sister Cindy and I decided to take our respective (though rarely respectful) kids to the park to play and have lunch. I sweetly volunteered to drive if she would fix lunch.
The day started out well enough. It was a beautiful day in late April, and it had rained the night before, so it was rather cool. I decided I better wear long pants, (mainly because I hadn’t shaved my legs since November) so I pulled on my brand new, straight-legged jeans(hey, it was the 80s!). I grabbed my Coca-Cola jacket and packed my kids in the car.
The park looked fantastic. The grass was that bright, verdant green you only see in the spring. We could still smell the rain from the night before, and the air hung thick with humidity. The park had all kinds of equipment: climbers, swings, merry-go-round, tires, and slides.
Cindy and I watched the kids play for a while, but I just couldn’t resist going down the slide a few times. I guess I should have stopped at once.
I chose the tallest slide. I was a grown woman after all! It just wouldn’t do for me to go down some puny, little kid’s slide. I discovered that the darn humidity had made the slide of my choice kind of sticky. That was no fun!
I hollered, “Hey Cindy! The slide is sticky! Do you by any chance have any wax paper in the lunch so I can slicker it up?”
“ No. I’m sorry,” she replied.
I was far too ingenious to be deterred, however. I thought it would be a good idea to slide down on my satiny jacket. That would slick it up! I sat at the top of the slide on my jacket and screamed, “Whee!” as I flew to the bottom.
My feet landed in the sand and stayed there. Unfortunately, the rest of my body did not take the hint and kept going. I heard a sound like a stick breaking and looked to see that my right foot was on backwards.
“Oh my God! Cindy! I think I’ve broken my leg!” I yelled.
Cindy walked over nonchalantly and said, “Funny. Get up.”
“I’m not kidding!”
“You did not break your leg. Get up!”
“Cindy, look at my foot!” I nearly screamed.
She looked down and her face turned to ash. “Oh my God! We have to get you to the hospital!”
I looked at my Fred Flintstone-like car parked about a football field away. This very conscientious park had curbs about 15’’ high and placed the equipment far away from the danger of parked cars.
Cindy called the kids and helped me to my feet…er, foot. I hopped about three times in excruciating pain, then realized that was not going to work. I would pass out before I got ten feet. The next option was crawling. Down I went on both hands and knees; broken, dangling, foot held up. This worked just fine until my four-year-old son hopped on my back.
“Give me a ride, Mama,” Ryan squealed.
My head spun around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist, and a deep, guttural, demon voice screamed, “Get off me!”
My little redheaded boy’s big, blue eyes filled with tears and he jumped off yelling, “I’m going back to play then!” Off he went. My oldest niece, Nicki, chased him down and brought him back.
Eventually, a kind man ended up carrying me to my car. On the way, I said, "Sorry I'm not smaller." to which he replied, "Me, too." Cindy drove my Flintstone-mobile to her house to drop off the kids.
We stayed in my car because I was not about to hop from car to car. Note to Hyundai owners: If you are ever broken, this is not the smoothest riding vehicle you could wish for!
Immediate Care was a welcome sight after the debacle in the park and having winced in agony over each of the seventeen billion bumps. Cindy ran in to get a wheelchair for which I was eternally grateful. I did not relish the idea of crawling across the asphalt on the parking lot. With my luck, I would be run over. I transferred from the Flintstone mobile to the wheelchair. Cindy pushed me into the building and we patiently waited our turn.
Up to this point, I had been very much in control. I did not cry or moan or curse loudly, because I didn’t want to scare my kids or my sister. Perhaps it was because the nurse finally looked my way that my tiny, little brain decided that it was no longer just my problem. The medical staff would take care of me. Whatever the reason, as soon as the nurse looked at me, I went into shock.
Boy, those folks move fast when they see a dangling foot and the body attached to it shivering uncontrollably. They rushed me into a room. The nurse said, “Let’s get these jeans off so we can x-ray.” That was easier said than done. My one and only pair of straight-legged jeans would not go over that foot. They tried and tried, then cut my brand new jeans off
my body, exposing my furry legs.
Off to x-ray! I figured it was bad when the nurse put my x-ray pictures up and sucked air through her teeth saying, “Ooh! Come here and look at this,” to her colleagues. Even after hearing that, I still thought they were joking when they said, “You need to have surgery.” I had broken both the bones in my lower leg.
Next thing I knew, I was flying down the hallway that connected to the hospital. I was in a drug-induced haze by then. Once at the hospital, I was taken to a room called the "manipulation room." I'm here to tell you that is a euphemism for "torture chamber."
While in the torture chamber, a group of sadists continually pulled and pushed on my leg telling me it was to try to align the bones (yeah, right!). The doctors then turned to my husband and asked him if he was ok!!
Since my ordeal, I now have an irrational fear of slipper slides, parks, sand, straight-legged jeans, and Coca-Cola jackets. Oh well, what are a few more phobias?