Hogan now describes the scene as something out of the movie John Q, and he anticipated that at any time someone wielding a gun would demand to cut in line and we would surely let him. Since I've not seen that movie, I regarded it as a Thanksgiving episode of the television series ER -- people everywhere coughing and hacking and crying and talking and probably bleeding all over the place. I'm not sure though, because we didn't stay long enough to look for bleeders. In fact, we didn't even sit down.
Our conversation back in the car went something like this:
Me: I'm sorry. I guess I'm spoiled and stuck up. I can't stay in there. It doesn't hurt that bad.
Hogan: Good. Because at some point they were going to have to take you back to check out your wrist, and I would be alone in there. Not good.
He drove in circles while I tried to decide what to do. Did I really need an emergency room? Was I being a wimp? The clincher in my decision was that I was supposed to drive kids back to College Station the next day, and I didn't need to do that if I wasn't first checked out by a medical professional.
Okay, it also hurt like hell, so that was a factor, too.
Finally I decided that we were only an hour from my parents and my sister. I didn't want Hogan to think I doubted his ability to care for me, so I explained that eventually I was going to have to pee, and I didn't think I was capable of unbuttoning my own pants. He's a good friend, but not that good. He wholeheartedly agreed.
I texted my sister to see if she was awake, and she was, so I called her. Here's how that conversation went:
Me: Hey. I've hurt my wrist, and I need to go to the emergency room. Can you meet me at the one in Waxahachie?
Wendy: What?
Me: I hurt my wrist. I'm in Arlington with school kids. Can you meet me?
Wendy: How did you hurt your wrist?
This began many, many explanations of how my injury came about in the first place.
Me: Well, we were at Six Flags, and we decided to have piggy back races, and, well, I fell and hurt my wrist.
I'm pretty sure my ear needed medical attention after the screeching volume of her laughter. Thanks, Wendy, for laughing at me in my hour of need.
Anyway, Hogan took me to the Waxahachie emergency room which looked only slightly less like a third world country than the Arlington emergency room, so Wendy and I wished Hogan a safe trip back to the hotel and decided to hit up the Ennis ER. It was closer to her house, anyway.
Long story short (okay, just less long because this is part 5), we saw the world's oldest doctor in the world at the Ennis ER and left sometime around 3:30 a.m. with a splint on my arm but no indication it was broken. This was, of course, after I explained to every overnight employee in that hospital that, yes, I am 32 years old, and yes, I was riding piggy back on a friend in a race, and no, we didn't win.
Wendy took me back to her house to get some sleep, and when we woke the next morning I called my dad to fill him in on the situation and ask him to take me back to Arlington.
And I explained the story again.
Unshowered and unkempt, I rejoined the best StuCo in the world around 10:00 a.m. to watch the last program. We emoted about the end of a long journey to serve as a state secretary school. I was just a passenger, but I was no less affected by the significance of this journey's end. We took lots of pictures (like the ones below) and then headed back to good ol' College Station.
We got back to school, returned rental cars, and went our separate ways to our own homes. Lucky for me, the best family in the world was waiting for me, and I was so exhausted and in pain that I just wanted to crawl into bed.
Trey ran me a hot bath and helped me undress and get cleaned up. By this time I couldn't take a deep breath without wanting to cry in pain, and I decided that wrist sprains must be far worse than childbirth.
Around 6:00 p.m., Trey and the boys went to run an errand (probably get dinner), and I crawled into bed hoping to sleep for a week. For no reason at all, I glanced over at the phone and noticed there was a voicemail. The message there made me feel strangely vindicated for what I had thought was just wimpy-ness.
"This message is for Stormy Hickman. My name is ____, and I'm calling from the emergency room in Ennis. It seems that your wrist is broken and you'll need to see an orthopedist as soon as possible. Call us back if you have any questions."
And then, for the first time since my injury, I cried. The hospital said my wrist was broken, so now I had an actual reason to be in pain, and I cried like a baby all by myself.
As I relate the story over and over to people who ask about my cast (most of them think I have carpal tunnel syndrome, by the way), many people remark about how there is a lesson to learn here and that maybe I'm too old for such shenanigans. I'm always reminded of my dad saying "you're only as young as you feel," and I don't think my age is the message at all.
Remember how I didn't ride the roller coasters because I didn't want to plummet to my death or impalement on an amusement park ride? Guess who is the only person who got hurt that night?
The clear lesson?
Safety doesn't pay.
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