'I can't, my foot hurts...'
Yesterday, I woke up and discovered that I was unable to walk properly because my right foot was hurting. A lot.
I brushed it off as possible residue of 'The Fall'.
Oh, yes, I am very much aware that The Fall happened on Friday night and yesterday was Wednesday, but you can't really blame me. I do not function well in the mornings.
It was most definitely not a good day to discover a mysterious injury that hindered basic motor skills. But by now, I'm used to things happening at bad times. In fifth grade, I got chicken pox a week before school photos were taken. I missed those, and a hugely entertaining trip to a dinosaur park. I'm still not over it. [They were plastic dinosaurs. But this was after Jurassic Park. The dinosaur fever was still very much on.]
Thankfully, I didn't miss anything important yesterday, but I did have to go to school to do some last minute history revision before IB exams start. So I limped all the way to the tram stop with my mother and when I got to school (late), I limped all the way up to the library, all the while noticing that my dear foot was getting progressively worse.
By the time the first part of the practise history paper our teacher had us doing was over, my right foot was twice the size of my left foot (OK, well, I'm exaggerating, but just a little) and it became painfully clear that the unidentified foot injury would not 'just go away', or at any rate not as fast as I would have wanted it to. Vicky, whom I thought until very recently was not acquainted with basic social skills, was surprisingly nice. She helped me up and down stairs and along numerous corridors. I think she too is a victim of the dreaded end-of-school fever that makes everyone nicer. We should give some of that to [insert name of desired politician/back-stabbing ex-best friend/horrid in-law].
I decided that I needed to go to hospital.
I took a taxi home (and felt rather pampered). Limping rather dramatically (but entirely justifiedly), I greeted my mother and brother, a pained expression marring my otherwise stunning and friendly features.
'Mother, I think I need the hospital,' I announced with a flourish. OK, more of a grimace (and, um, no, I don't really call her 'mother').
They had the good grace to look apprehensive.
'Is it your foot?' mum asked, coming over to give me a consolatory kiss.
'Yes,' I sighed, and sat down.
She went back to the computer.
Sensing that everyone's attention was no longer on me as it should have been, I staggered upright and spoke again:
'So, um, hospital?'
'Oh, yes, dear, but your brother and I have an appointment at five, I'll take you when we get back.'
If my foot hadn't been so terribly injured, I would have thrown a tantrum. Unfortunately, stamping my feet was out of the question, so I couldn't. I resorted to whining, and a healthy does of outraged sputtering.
'B-But... Mother! I am injured! My foot is broken! Surely you will not make me wait?'
My brother gave me a pat on the head. My mother laughed and called me 'nazli', a five-letter word that translates to something like 'awwww, endearingly spoilt little brat!'. Under normal circumstances, this is a cute little word that makes me pretend to be even more spoilt and five-year-old. However, these were not normal circumstances. I was in terrible pain, and nobody cared!
I called Pan to bitch to her about how unloved I was, et cetera. My mum gave me a cup of tea and laughed at the death-glare I shot her, so I resorted to annoying Pan further and watching Gilmore Girls reruns, as well as eating industrial amounts of Pan di Stelle. I even took a shower, fully expecting my whole leg to be put in a cast very soon and thus wanting my leg to be clean before having to be stuck in unbreakable material for a month. Of course, I didn't stop to think that, given the precarious state of my poor foot, I could have fallen and broken something else. Hey, teenagers are supposed to not think of consequences.
Eventually, my mum got back home and my brother took us to the hospital. Having dislocated several fingers and even broken one on occasion, I'd been to this particular hospital several times and was therefore fully aware of the wait before me. Which was made even worse by the prospect of missing a crucial football match: Barcelona-AC Milan, the second leg of the Champions League semifinal. I think you can guess what team I support.
I was in pain and my mother was having one of those days where she particularly enjoys mocking my pain and laughing at me (not with me, I assure you) when things got even worse. A girl about my age hopped in with her father and sat right next to me.
The dreaded waiting room conversation began.
I could tell without even looking at her that she was one of those ditzy italians that I... dislike. She began talking and all my suspicions were confirmed.
A few snippets of our interactions, presented here purely for your enjoyment:
Her: So, what language were you speaking earlier?
Me: Turkish.
Her: Oh, really? Why? [OH MY GOD, JUST HOW MANY BRAIN CELLS DO YOU OWN?]
Me: Um, because I'm Turkish.
Her: But you don't look Turkish. And neither does your mum.
Me: Actually, she looks quite Turkish [she really does. The girl was expecting us to look Arabic]. As for me... well, my dad's blond.
Her: Oh! Cool!
Her: So, Turkish, huh?
Me: Yep.
Her: I've been to Morocco.
Me: Really?
Her: Um, do you know a certain A. F.?
Me: Yes, I do. Wait, describe her, there might be someone else with the same name.
Her: Oh, you know, quite pretty, long bushy hair, average height...
Me: Yeah, I know her.
Her: Isn't she such a bitch?
It was really a pity that my name was called and I had to be torn away from the riveting conversation.
As usual, the doctor attempted to guess my nationality instead of trying to diagnose the nature of my injury. He thought I was Dutch. Then he thought I was Norwegian, and finally Swedish. At that point, my mother decided to end the pain and tell him that we're Turkish.
Doctor: Turkish? Oh, really? I've been to Istanbul!
I don't give a flying fuck where you've been, imbecile, just look at my foot!
But noooo, of course that's too much to ask, isn't it?
Doctor: I went to Turkey in 1980, blah blah blah. It was really beautiful, we went to the Black Sea, blah blah blah.
Mum [deciding to become an instrument of the Devil]: Well, next time you should try the Mediterranean coast!
Doctor: Oh, yes, Antalya, right?
Mum: Yes, it's very beautiful.
I zoned out, concentrating on my inner ear and listening to the rather painful pulsations of my foot.
Another fifteen minutes later, I got called back for an X-ray. It was uneventful, except for the sheet of lead they placed on my tummy to keep my uterus safe. Even though the lead they use is too thin to block even half of the rays emitted. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't taken physics. OK, I wish every day that I hadn't taken physics.
It got so late that the football match started. There was a TV in the waiting room perched very high up. I went blind trying to follow the game and my mum ignored me in favour of reading Jude the Obscure, which I made her read, by the way. She's at the part where Little Father Time does that unpleasant thing that he does (I'm really trying to avoid those pesky spoilers, you see) and she was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't even hear when they called my name. Being the responsible person that I am, I was of course paying full attention to the announcement, and limped all the way to the doctor's room.
The verdict?
There is nothing wrong with my foot. It's just a bad 'contusione', i.e. I got hit very hard, but nothing's broken.
Me: Could it be something muscular? Could I have pulled a... foot muscle?
Doctor [sporting a supercilious look]: No, there is nothing wrong with your foot. Go home and put ice on it.
Well thank you, Mr. I-know-better-than-you-because-I-actually-have-a-degree-and-I've-been-to-Turkey-so-that-automatically-makes-me-culturally-aware.
I went home to watch the second half of the football match, feeling very much let down about the anticlimactic end to three hours in hospital and an unhealthy amount of overdramatized complaining.
My foot was better this morning, though still far from healed. And guess what happens at midday? My dear brother asks me to cook, but it's okay if you don't, really, you can say no if your foot's not well, really, I'm serious, I can cook if you're not feeling up to it, I'm just asking because I like asking random things to my only sibling.
HA! The nerve!
So I cooked.
I am so not washing the dishes tonight.
I brushed it off as possible residue of 'The Fall'.
Oh, yes, I am very much aware that The Fall happened on Friday night and yesterday was Wednesday, but you can't really blame me. I do not function well in the mornings.
It was most definitely not a good day to discover a mysterious injury that hindered basic motor skills. But by now, I'm used to things happening at bad times. In fifth grade, I got chicken pox a week before school photos were taken. I missed those, and a hugely entertaining trip to a dinosaur park. I'm still not over it. [They were plastic dinosaurs. But this was after Jurassic Park. The dinosaur fever was still very much on.]
Thankfully, I didn't miss anything important yesterday, but I did have to go to school to do some last minute history revision before IB exams start. So I limped all the way to the tram stop with my mother and when I got to school (late), I limped all the way up to the library, all the while noticing that my dear foot was getting progressively worse.
By the time the first part of the practise history paper our teacher had us doing was over, my right foot was twice the size of my left foot (OK, well, I'm exaggerating, but just a little) and it became painfully clear that the unidentified foot injury would not 'just go away', or at any rate not as fast as I would have wanted it to. Vicky, whom I thought until very recently was not acquainted with basic social skills, was surprisingly nice. She helped me up and down stairs and along numerous corridors. I think she too is a victim of the dreaded end-of-school fever that makes everyone nicer. We should give some of that to [insert name of desired politician/back-stabbing ex-best friend/horrid in-law].
I decided that I needed to go to hospital.
I took a taxi home (and felt rather pampered). Limping rather dramatically (but entirely justifiedly), I greeted my mother and brother, a pained expression marring my otherwise stunning and friendly features.
'Mother, I think I need the hospital,' I announced with a flourish. OK, more of a grimace (and, um, no, I don't really call her 'mother').
They had the good grace to look apprehensive.
'Is it your foot?' mum asked, coming over to give me a consolatory kiss.
'Yes,' I sighed, and sat down.
She went back to the computer.
Sensing that everyone's attention was no longer on me as it should have been, I staggered upright and spoke again:
'So, um, hospital?'
'Oh, yes, dear, but your brother and I have an appointment at five, I'll take you when we get back.'
If my foot hadn't been so terribly injured, I would have thrown a tantrum. Unfortunately, stamping my feet was out of the question, so I couldn't. I resorted to whining, and a healthy does of outraged sputtering.
'B-But... Mother! I am injured! My foot is broken! Surely you will not make me wait?'
My brother gave me a pat on the head. My mother laughed and called me 'nazli', a five-letter word that translates to something like 'awwww, endearingly spoilt little brat!'. Under normal circumstances, this is a cute little word that makes me pretend to be even more spoilt and five-year-old. However, these were not normal circumstances. I was in terrible pain, and nobody cared!
I called Pan to bitch to her about how unloved I was, et cetera. My mum gave me a cup of tea and laughed at the death-glare I shot her, so I resorted to annoying Pan further and watching Gilmore Girls reruns, as well as eating industrial amounts of Pan di Stelle. I even took a shower, fully expecting my whole leg to be put in a cast very soon and thus wanting my leg to be clean before having to be stuck in unbreakable material for a month. Of course, I didn't stop to think that, given the precarious state of my poor foot, I could have fallen and broken something else. Hey, teenagers are supposed to not think of consequences.
Eventually, my mum got back home and my brother took us to the hospital. Having dislocated several fingers and even broken one on occasion, I'd been to this particular hospital several times and was therefore fully aware of the wait before me. Which was made even worse by the prospect of missing a crucial football match: Barcelona-AC Milan, the second leg of the Champions League semifinal. I think you can guess what team I support.
I was in pain and my mother was having one of those days where she particularly enjoys mocking my pain and laughing at me (not with me, I assure you) when things got even worse. A girl about my age hopped in with her father and sat right next to me.
The dreaded waiting room conversation began.
I could tell without even looking at her that she was one of those ditzy italians that I... dislike. She began talking and all my suspicions were confirmed.
A few snippets of our interactions, presented here purely for your enjoyment:
Her: So, what language were you speaking earlier?
Me: Turkish.
Her: Oh, really? Why? [OH MY GOD, JUST HOW MANY BRAIN CELLS DO YOU OWN?]
Me: Um, because I'm Turkish.
Her: But you don't look Turkish. And neither does your mum.
Me: Actually, she looks quite Turkish [she really does. The girl was expecting us to look Arabic]. As for me... well, my dad's blond.
Her: Oh! Cool!
Her: So, Turkish, huh?
Me: Yep.
Her: I've been to Morocco.
Me: Really?
Her: Um, do you know a certain A. F.?
Me: Yes, I do. Wait, describe her, there might be someone else with the same name.
Her: Oh, you know, quite pretty, long bushy hair, average height...
Me: Yeah, I know her.
Her: Isn't she such a bitch?
It was really a pity that my name was called and I had to be torn away from the riveting conversation.
As usual, the doctor attempted to guess my nationality instead of trying to diagnose the nature of my injury. He thought I was Dutch. Then he thought I was Norwegian, and finally Swedish. At that point, my mother decided to end the pain and tell him that we're Turkish.
Doctor: Turkish? Oh, really? I've been to Istanbul!
I don't give a flying fuck where you've been, imbecile, just look at my foot!
But noooo, of course that's too much to ask, isn't it?
Doctor: I went to Turkey in 1980, blah blah blah. It was really beautiful, we went to the Black Sea, blah blah blah.
Mum [deciding to become an instrument of the Devil]: Well, next time you should try the Mediterranean coast!
Doctor: Oh, yes, Antalya, right?
Mum: Yes, it's very beautiful.
I zoned out, concentrating on my inner ear and listening to the rather painful pulsations of my foot.
Another fifteen minutes later, I got called back for an X-ray. It was uneventful, except for the sheet of lead they placed on my tummy to keep my uterus safe. Even though the lead they use is too thin to block even half of the rays emitted. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't taken physics. OK, I wish every day that I hadn't taken physics.
It got so late that the football match started. There was a TV in the waiting room perched very high up. I went blind trying to follow the game and my mum ignored me in favour of reading Jude the Obscure, which I made her read, by the way. She's at the part where Little Father Time does that unpleasant thing that he does (I'm really trying to avoid those pesky spoilers, you see) and she was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't even hear when they called my name. Being the responsible person that I am, I was of course paying full attention to the announcement, and limped all the way to the doctor's room.
The verdict?
There is nothing wrong with my foot. It's just a bad 'contusione', i.e. I got hit very hard, but nothing's broken.
Me: Could it be something muscular? Could I have pulled a... foot muscle?
Doctor [sporting a supercilious look]: No, there is nothing wrong with your foot. Go home and put ice on it.
Well thank you, Mr. I-know-better-than-you-because-I-actually-have-a-degree-and-I've-been-to-Turkey-so-that-automatically-makes-me-culturally-aware.
I went home to watch the second half of the football match, feeling very much let down about the anticlimactic end to three hours in hospital and an unhealthy amount of overdramatized complaining.
My foot was better this morning, though still far from healed. And guess what happens at midday? My dear brother asks me to cook, but it's okay if you don't, really, you can say no if your foot's not well, really, I'm serious, I can cook if you're not feeling up to it, I'm just asking because I like asking random things to my only sibling.
HA! The nerve!
So I cooked.
I am so not washing the dishes tonight.
Labels: Random is good
posted by The Poodle's Friend at 6:11 PM
10 Comments:
OMG, you forgot the whinging I had to put up with when I called you in the hospital last night.
You are such a Drama Queen. You're worse than me, and that's BAD. Seriously, you're like my gradma who likes to over-dramatisize random illnesses. I can't believe I was sympathetic about your foot all of yesterday when there was absolutely nothing wrong with it.
If the pain has gone down since yesterday then it could also mean that the doctor was experimenting some new 'placebo method' or something to fix injured legs.
ha..I don't see why you're getting testy with the girl. I mean, Turkey, Morroco, Egypt, Middle East; same thing, aren't they?
Ah such a shame.
About Milan I mean.
Actually what am I talking about? I wanted Barcelona to go through.
Well good thing your foot's not broken. I'm always getting random pains and problems, and my parents are completely unsympathetic. It doesn't help that they're doctors either...for some reason that makes them care less.
Pan: You unsympathetic bitch. That's it, the next time you get a cough, do not expect enything but mocking laughter from me.
The Doctor was an asshat. Nothing you say is going to discharge him from his immeasurable guilt.
Pooper: My mother is the queen of mockery. She is a horrible, horrible person.
Incidentally, do you know what Turkish sounds like?
actonbell: thanks for the sympathy! Actually, I was in first grade when Jurassic Park came out. My brother took me to watch it and I got really terrified. That's all I remember.
Ash: Oh, great, support Barcelona. Rub salt in the wounds. Mock my pain. Seriously, have you seen how hot Kakà is compared to Ronaldinho? How can you still want Barcelona to go through? HOW?
I agree. Parents are unsypathetic. But it's just because they're jealous of our youth.
lol. that was hilarious. why are doctors so dumb? when i broke my foot, the idiot actually had the gall to give me a damn patronizing smile and say this is gonna hurt a bit but you look like a brave girl.
oh balls, i swear, i wanted to slap his face off. i said no problemo dude, its just that i'm a little violent so... i get hurt, you get hurt..... hmm, i've never seen a doc look quite so nervous.
I always had to bear the brunt of facing skeptical doctors. They first begin with, "you should tell me how everything happened"
And after you do, through gritted teeth. They don't believe you. Plain and simple.
But are they symphathetic? NO. Empathatic? poof.
I think they spend one year in the med-schools trying to become sadists.
On the brighter side, if you had wrecked your hand, you couldn't have ranted on your blog. And you are a bit of a Nazli, however you pronounce it. All the best for your exams. Smile when you get the results.
Talking about irritating docters, I'll never forget mine. He was a horrible person.
One memory that will always stay in my mind is that in second grade I was dying of chicken pox, high temperature and ear infection all at the same time and all the doctor kept doing is discussing the stock market with my mum.
"Seriously, have you seen how hot Kakà is compared to Ronaldinho?"
Have you seen the tricks Ronaldinho can do with the ball? I mean you look at them and think, he must be dynamite in bed.
Umm...I mean...well, obviously I don't have any opinion on the attractiveness of any football players.
Admiral: Wow, garrulous much?
Eris: I so know how you feel. I felt like kicking him in the face repeatedly. Only the thought of not injuring my foot further prevented me from smashing his face in.
Nitin: Yes, I am quite nazli, but it's endearing, don't you think?
As for the exams, well, I'll let you all know about how they go.
Pan: awww, poor baby!
Frankengirl: thanks! And how is it that you always manage to comment by using phrases from the post? Seriously, it's an art.
Ash: Actually, you're right, Ronaldinho is amazing with a ball. Did you see that commercial where he hits the top goalpost five times in a row or something without the ball ever touching the ground? Creepy.
As for imagining him in bed...I'd rather not.
Heyyyy!
What's with the clean-up?
Wasn't one of your links something called geography games and something else called the spartacus history site?
Where is all that huh? WHERE?
Some people visit your site only for those links, did you know that? Okay, some people may only be me. But still. You don't want to lose my devout readership do you? And all this when I was about to start South America today.
Awww, nitin, that's adorable! Well, here are the links, just for you.
http://www.sheppardsoftware.com/European_Geography.htm
http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/
There, happy now? I don't know what I'd do without your 'devout readership'! =D
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