So I broke my ankle. You may know that already. And you may know that I went to the hospital and had a wonderful time. For the second time in my life, I got to ride on a gurney and in a wheelchair. No pain meds this time, because I’m so brave and strong and all that. And I got an adorable doctor who’s young enough to have had me as a babysitter, who said, “It’s always you heroes who walk around and say, ‘If I can walk on it, it’s not broken.’ But you’re wrong. You just have an incredibly high pain tolerance.”
(Higgins gives McIrish an insufferably smug look.)
Not only that, I got a snarky and hilarious nurse named Larry, who said things like, “When people make fun of you—and they will—”
Me: “Why do I always get the smart-ass nurses?”
Larry: “You tell them they’ll answer to me. I’m not just a nurse. I’m your muscle.”
(Higgins falls madly in crush.)
During the exam, Dr. Adorable pushed on my broken fibula and said, “So THIS doesn’t even hurt?” I said, “No! I’m amazing! Honey, see how amazing I am?” McIrish nodded patiently. He’s a patient man. He also knew I was living the dream. “I’m so glad I shaved my legs for you guys,” I told Larry and Dr. Adorable. They laughed. A captive audience.
When Larry wheeled me down to the car, he said, “You didn’t think it would be this much fun, did you?”
Wrong, Larry. I knew. Does this look like the face of someone who fears a little medical attention?