Saturday, October 8, 2011

A Fistful of Paperwork

So I left the ER with a handful of paperwork, two wrapped up ankles, an orthopedic shoe, and crutches. So woo, great hospital swag acquired! Medically I’m not supposed put any weight on my right foot and to put as little stress as possible on my left foot as it’s already weakened and could easily roll and sustain further damage. That was a wonderful pep talk from the staff. At least I wasn’t planning on running the Portland Marathon.

Now I have to prove to the hospital that I’m not making any money. I found this concept interesting because it’s pretty difficult to prove a negative. Well, the balance in one of my bank accounts was actually going to make that pretty easy. So I need to provide a copy of my taxes, 3 months of bank account statements, and 3 months of pay stubs. The pay stubs are by far the easiest since they don’t exist at all. I also have to send in a letter describing my financial situation. This letter is, I’m assuming, so that the hospital financial office has something to laugh at during their lunch hour.

The drive home was quick, but my legs informed me that there are enough pot holes on that short route to provide jobs for a large number of people. And then the argument started. My husband and I live in the basement. Me being a hurt sick animal I wanted to crawl, literally, down into my hole and hide. After the eventful morning, my husband was a worn out, tired man and he wanted to tuck me into the guest bedroom on the main floor.
“Please, I can totally scoot down the stairs on my butt.”
“Please, all my stuff is down there.”
“No, we can bring your stuff to you.”
“Please, if I’m already downstairs no one has to bring anything to me.”
“Except food. If you’re downstairs we have to bring you food. And how are you going to get to your stuff, you’re not supposed to walk on your right foot and you’re supposed to stay off of your left as much as possible.”
“I’ll crawl.”
“You will not. I know you, and the minute that I’m not looking you’ll get up because it’s easier.”

So I lost. While I sat in the parked car while my husband prepped the house I got my friends on board with the downstairs idea. I had formed up my troops and was ready make a new assault. However between crawling up the steps and the ten minutes it took me to maneuver the bathroom my will to bump down a full flight of stairs evaporated. Unfortunately my friends were still on board with the badly injured friend downstairs program. I collapsed, defeated on the guest bed and convinced everyone that moving might be possible after the pain pill arrived from the pharmacy. But other than that I was going to remain sedentary until my legs fell off or the sun swallowed the earth, whichever came first.

1 comment:

  1. I really thought you wanted to be down stairs. Really.