Humor Magazine

Drake Was Right About Sprained Ankles

By Katie Hoffman @katienotholmes

I feel like I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants lately, and it’s a lot less comfortable than flying coach. Between me and my boyfriend’s second anniversary, my boyfriend’s aunt passing away, and my 24th birthday fast approaching on the 13th, things have been pretty busy lately, and everything only got crazier yesterday morning because I had to take my mom to the emergency room.

Spoiler alert: she’s going to be fine.

I came home from my boyfriend’s apartment early Sunday morning around 5 a.m. My mom and I usually go to a strength training class at our gym at 9:00 a.m. every Sunday, and I guess it takes me roughly four hours to eat breakfast, become a real person, and take a morning poop.

When I got home this Sunday morning, all the lights in my house were still off. That might be normal for all you non-morning people, but in my household it’s strange, because my mom is an early riser, and she usually takes the dog for a walk before too many other people are out and about with their pets. Let’s just say my dog is particular about the company she keeps. It happened to be drizzling that morning, so I figured my mom had decided to sleep in because she wouldn’t be taking a dog for a walk in that weather anyway.

I came in and immediately went into the bathroom (not to poop) to take out my Ortho-K contacts and my retainer, because unlike Cinderella, I turn into a pumpkin at night. When I emerged from the bathroom with my eyeballs and teeth free of the chains that mold them into perfection, my mom nonchalantly said,

“When you’re done in the bathroom, can you take care of the dog? Then I think you might need to call an ambulance because I fell last night, and I think some bones are broken in my foot.”




I went into my mom’s bedroom and discovered her leg looks like one of those cartoon snakes that ate a grapefruit whole. She informs me that she fell last night and thinks there might be multiple broken bones in her foot that may require surgery.

“Why didn’t you call or text me last night when it happened?”

“Well, it was 9:30, and I figured you’d already be asleep. Besides, I didn’t want to bother you.”

That’s the thing about my mother. She’s a proud woman, and she’s always concerned about being an inconvenience or bothering me–apparently even when it involves some potential broken bones.

“How did you fall?”

“I was going down the stairs to let the dog out. I didn’t want to turn the light on because I was in my pajamas, and I guess my slipper moved somehow and I fell. I’ll tell you, for a second it felt like I was flying. It happened so fast I really don’t remember.”


In essence, my 59-year-old, 115-pound mother had just informed me she fell down a flight of stairs and landed at the bottom on our concrete basement floor. Perhaps equally distressing was the reality she’s rather walk downstairs in the dark than risk someone seeing her in her jim-jams. She was lucky a few bumps and bruises and a possibly broken foot were the extent of her injuries. After feeding the dog, the next order of business was figuring out a way to get my mother out of the house and into the car to take her to the emergency room.

I may be strong, but I can’t carry 115 pounds from the front of our house, down the hall, through the kitchen, down three stairs, out the back door, and into to the garage. I may work out every day, but I’m not one of those buff chicks with veins bulging out of my swollen biceps. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to call an ambulance. Riding in an ambulance for a potentially broken foot is like taking a cab because you don’t want to walk three blocks: it’s for wimps. Ambulance rides should be reserved for true emergencies: gun shot wounds, heart attacks, strokes, bouts of unconsciousness, gaping wounds that are gushing blood, impalements, etc. In lieu of an extravagant ambulance ride, we ended up using two different office chairs as makeshift wheelchairs to get my mom out of her bedroom and safely into the car.



We made it to the emergency room, and unlike the horror stories I’ve heard so many times before about waiting seven hours just to see a doctor, I think we were only there a total of two hours, and that included registration, speaking to a nurse and a doctor, taking some pain medication, receiving a bunch of paperwork and an orthopedic doctor referral, and getting a wrap from a hospital tech. To my mom’s surprise, the x-rays didn’t indicate the multiple broken bones she assumed were the evidence of her ankle swelling. The only potential hairline fracture they noted was near her heel. The pain and swelling was actually being caused by a really bad strain, likely with torn ligaments.

We got back from the hospital and my mom practiced using her new walker to navigate around the house. Because of the three stairs that lead down to our back door, she’d be confined to the front part of the house until she can put pressure on the injured leg. After I set her up in the living room with her leg elevated above her heart, I was planning to go to Walgreens to fill the prescription for the painkillers the doctor had written. She’d barely complained of any discomfort, but when the nurse had asked how bad the pain was on a scale of one to ten, she replied with, “Seven.”

I started flipping through the paperwork the nurse had given my mom before we left the ER, and I noticed something surprising:


These motherfuckers gave my mom the wrong paperwork. (That’s an actual quote from my head, by the way.)

Look, I know hospitals see a lot of patients, but the ER wasn’t at a Grey’s Anatomy level of business when we were there, and please don’t even get me started on all the privacy best practices that are being violated when you give someone another patient’s medical records. I had in my hands the history of all the tests Ms. Kennedy underwent, the pain she experienced, her date of birth (July 23, 1989–my mom is about a year older than me), and her doctor referral.

I drove back to the hospital preparing to be a passive aggressive bitch. I was listening to Drake’s “Trophies” just to get in the right frame of mind. How was I going to broach the subject? And who should be the bearer of my wrath? The nurse who had given my mom the incorrect documents told us before we left that her shift was ending; I’m sure that’s how this whole mix-up happened in the first place. I’d say more about her incompetence, but it’s not necessary. All you need to know is this: the bitch had clumpy eyelashes, and I don’t think nurses should have clumpy eyelashes.

This a doing me and only God can judge song

Maybe I’ll start with how I expected more from the hospital! Make them really guilty…

I do not know what the fuck you thought it was song…

MAYBE I’LL WIKILEAKS THEIR ASSES! Expose their carelessness on the Internet for the entire world to see!

I came marching off the elevator to the EMT sitting by the ER front door.

“Someone gave me the wrong paperwork,” I said in the bitchiest tone I could muster given my concern about leaving my wounded mother at home with a walker.

“Uuhhhhh, oh, go see registration.”

I stomped over to registration, pacing back and forth in front of the unoccupied registration windows. One member of a family waiting for news about their possibly-dying loved one told me, “She stepped into the back.”

I’m leaning against a pillar tapping my foot, and when this lady gets back to her window it’s go time.

“Can I help you?”

YEAH BITCH, WHERE’S MY CORRECT PAPERWORK!? I could go full Jesse Pinkman right now.

“You guys gave my mom the wrong paperwork.”

If there wasn’t glass separating us, I would’ve made the incorrect hospital documents rain down on her like dollar bills, but as it was, I carefully shoved them through one those little safety slots.

She apologized, went away for a while, and told me the charge nurse would bring the right documents to me. When the charge nurse came with the paperwork, she narrowed her eyes at me and asked, “And who are you to the patient?”

AND WHO AM I? I’m the crazy bitch in the hospital that’s about to drop your ass in the emergency room lobby, that’s who the fuck I am. Are you really questioning my entitlement to these private documents when you gave me a complete stranger’s documents in the first place? Who am I. I’m emergency contact status, BITCH.

“I’m her daughter.”

“Okay, I just need you to sign this release form here, and write daughter after your name.”

Now that I had the proper information, I drove over to a nearby Walgreens to fill the prescription. In addition to taking Ibuprofen around the clock, the doctor prescribed Narco, which is a narcotic whose name isn’t very imaginative. My mom had given me her insurance prescription card, but I’ve never picked up someone else’s narcotic prescription before. Is that allowed? Isn’t this how drug addicts cut corners and feed their habit? Is the pharmacy technician going to think I have a drug problem? I hadn’t brushed my hair yet that day.

I stepped up to the pharmacy counter with the prescription and the insurance card.

“Are you picking up or dropping off?”

Maybe it’s because I was nervous, and maybe it’s because my mom’s tumble has now given me reason to worry about what could happen to her when I’m not at home, but this question didn’t make sense to me. I know I’m not picking up, but I want to be picking up ultimately. “Dropping off” makes it seem like I’m dropping off some pills or something. Is this a test? Does she think I have a drug problem? I should’ve put my hair in a bun. Act cool. Don’t let them suspect anything.

“Um, I just came from the hospital… I don’t know what the procedure is, but I have this.” ALSO, I’M NOT ADDICTED TO DRUGS OR TRYING TO SCAM YOU OUT OF DELICIOUS PILLS.

The technician gave me a bitchy look and snatched the paper out of my hand.

“You’re dropping off.”

BITCH. DO NOT EVEN START WITH ME. I will jump over this counter and disorganize your completed prescription baggies so they’re all out of alphabetical order, and then we’ll really see who’s dropping off.

While my prescription was being filled, I went to the medicine aisle to get some Ibuprofen. I hate being in the medicine aisle when other people are there, because I always assume they’re looking for pills to soothe numerous diseases. I always hold my breath around them as not to invite any of their germs into my lungs.

I found the Ibuprofen, but there were no less than five different kinds, and they were all Walgreens brand! I know this probably wasn’t the right time, and I know generic pills are just as effective, but I wanted the name brand Ibuprofen! My mom had fallen down the stairs, and she deserves the best! Caplets. Gel capsules. Dye-free. Walgreens. Walgreens. Walgreens.


Some sniffly jerk behind me started having a cough attack, and I fled the aisle, because I was running out of hair. I trod over to the feminine hygiene section and took a nice deep breath. There’s no way to catch pregnancy or a heavy period. Sniffles McNasty was tall enough that I could see his ig head in the next aisle. I waited until he got all his Robetussins before I dove back in.

I settled on a generic, dye-free, tablet Ibuprofen, which ended up costing more than actual prescription narcotics–which put me out the whopping sum of $2.51.

So while my mom waits to get in at the orthopedic doctor’s office sometime this week, I’ve been making her tea and fixing her food she’s incapable of keeping down. I’ve also learned a lot about myself and how I deal with people when my momma’s hurt, so I’ll finish with a quote that’s probably never been more appropriate:


Have you ever had a sprained ankle? Any tips? What have your emergency room experiences been like?

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