Okay, get ready for a harrowing tale of caffeine, carbs, curbs and catastrophic clumsiness. It all started on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Picture this: I get up early and make the hour drive to help my best friend, Jenn, move. Now, I’m not exactly built for heavy lifting. Let’s just say my left shoulder and I are having a disagreement, courtesy of a torn labrum. So, my main contribution was providing the truck. Moral support and solid driving skills were also included.

Being the thoughtful (and caffeine-dependent) person I am, I made a pit stop for supplies. A coffee and cheddar bagel twist for me, and a box of munchkins for the moving crew. Fuel is essential for a successful operation, right? Oh, how wrong I was.

I arrived at Jenn’s, and was the first helper to arrive. Jenn went inside to start bringing out her belongings, and I, ever the strategic planner, decided to wait in the driver’s seat. This is where the coffee, that seemingly innocent beverage, turned villain.

I headed for the driver’s door, cheddar bagel twist clutched firmly in my right hand. Opening the door, I realized I’d left my precious coffee on the top of the truck bed. Now, I’m not one to abandon caffeine, or any beverage really, so I reached around with my left arm, stepping forward with my left foot.

Here’s where the physics of the situation conspired against me. I had parked an awkward distance from the curb, resulting in a slightly off-kilter stance. My left foot landed on my right foot. Cue the slow-motion montage: a wobble, a twist, and then BAM! My right ankle decided to stage a dramatic protest and dislocate itself. I landed squarely on my backside in the dirt, legs splayed out before me like a broken doll. My right leg was no longer in alignment with my foot, and it was obviously dislocated.

Now, I’m not going to lie, I went into shock faster than you can say “mocha latte.” The pain? Nonexistent. The feeling of utter wrongness emanating from my ankle? EXTREME.

Jenn emerged from the house, a picture of confusion. “Why are you sitting in the dirt?” she asked. I explained my predicament, and she confirmed the ankle’s less than ideal position. 911 was called, sirens wailed in the distance, and my perfectly planned Saturday went straight to hell in a handbasket.

The police arrived first. I had managed to pull myself sideways into the driver’s seat, clinging to the last vestiges of dignity. I even managed to call my husband, Dave, to arrange for him to pick me up from the hospital later that day. The police asked if I could stand to get into a wheelchair. I thought I could, but as soon as I put weight on my left foot, it buckled. I basically fell backwards into the wheelchair. Graceful, I am not.

The ambulance arrived shortly after, and I was strapped onto a gurney. But, and this is important, I DID bring my coffee. Priorities, people!

So, what’s the moral of the story? Well, besides the obvious “don’t try to be a hero with a torn labrum and a caffeine addiction,” it’s this: coffee can be dangerous in the most unexpected ways. Stay tuned for my next post, where I’ll regale you with tales of hospital shenanigans and the joys of navigating life in my new circumstances. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to put my coffee down before attempting any acrobatic maneuvers.

Categorized in:

Traumatic Injury,