Call The Hospital, Robb Has His Tools Out Again

How many of you have seen the scene in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation where the ladder falls out from under Chevy Chase while he is working on the Christmas Lights? Funny stuff, huh?

Well, believe it or not, I know someone who did this for real. The poor man was taking down his Christmas lights and while standing at the top of the ladder the bottom slid out. Unfortunately, rather than ending up hanging from the gutters, he instead rode the ladder to the ground where he landed on top of it. He busted four ribs in the process. Who was this hapless soul? It was none other than my father.

Before everyone bursts into a collective aaahhh, I told you this story because what happened after that shows how there is a thread that weaves through the universe connecting all. There have been studies showing that, even when separated at birth, there is a psychic connection with one’s genetic parents.

That is my excuse for what happened next. Sure, you could say that subliminally my father’s fall was in the back of my mind and I would accept that, because it is better than admitting that I was stupid. You see, I broke my toe on the weekend.

How did this nefarious thing happen, you may ask. Was I involved in the dramatic rescue of a kitten, stopping the destruction of the rain forest or possibly even, catching Osama Bin Laden? These would all be good guesses (mostly because they stroke my ego) but alas, I dropped a crowbar.

Of course, Sir Isaac Newton is partially to blame, for if he had not come out with his theory of gravity this would not have happened. I probably will never know who the evil character was that placed the crowbar on top of my step ladder where I was working, or what evil force of nature caused it to shift to that particular position, but the end result was the same. When I went to move my ladder, down it came, pointy end first, right onto my baby toe.

My wife, being the caring and devoted soul that she is, dove for cover as I spewed forth string after string of profanities. Upon reflection, I realise that I could have improved upon my grammar and possibly thrown in some conjunctions to make it a proper sentence but, for some reason, it just didn’t seem to matter at the time.

As I danced about the kitchen, the aforementioned expletives spouting forth, my doting wife rolled her eyes and went to get the first aid kit. I can’t be sure, but I could swear there was glee in her eyes as she poured gallon after gallon of peroxide onto my gushing wound. As she placed a Snoopy Band-Aid on, what I considered to be a critical mutilation, a life threatening injury of the greatest concern, she sighed and announced that I should probably go to the hospital.

Of course, as many will attest, my wife adores me, hanging on my every word, cherishing my very being. Because of this, I knew it was with a heavy heart that she announced she would take me to the hospital after supper. After all, if we left immediately the roast would be over cooked and it was only another two hours until it was done.

Unfortunately, her concern for me ruined supper. I could tell that the worry made the taste of the food turn sour in her mouth as she had a second helping. It was even more evident as she unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher and stopped to do her nails.

Finally we were on our way to the hospital. Attempting to divert her attention from the distress she must feel she turned on the stereo. With Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves blaring we headed down the road. (note to self: complain about the state of those roads).

I must commend the hospital staff for their professionalism. The triage nurse was great and once she heard my story and stopped laughing I was immediately sent to tell my story to another staff member. I could tell that my wife was very upset by this behaviour as she had tears in her eyes and was complaining about her sides hurting.

They were very thorough as well. There was a bit of momentary panic when I could not remember whether I had received my tetanus shot last year, when I was at the hospital because of the plaster I got in my eye while tearing out some of the ceiling and not wearing safety goggles, or, when I was in having that same eye checked two years ago after getting a branch in it while picking up shingles. I do know that it wasn’t when I stepped on the nail because I didn’t bother going to the hospital that time. After all, I knew my tetanus was up to date and they all seem to laugh too much when I’m there.

The doctor, of course, had much more decorum than that. Entering the room, he was all business as he poked and prodded my toe. Looking studious he announced that, in his opinion, having had years of medical training and experience, my toe was broken. Or bruised. It didn’t really matter though because the treatment was the same. Nothing. It turns out there is nothing they can do other than prescribe mind-numbing drugs (yippee) and tell you to take time off work.

So, here I sit. I have to admire the pretty purple colour my toe has become, but then again, that may be the drugs. I do know that I am bored. There is only so much television that one person can watch and tormenting the cats loses its shine relatively quickly. That Judge Judy is quite the character though.

Ultimately it is my fathers fault. After all, it’s genetic.