Wet tiles + stairs + rush hour + gravity defying manoeuvre = one sore sister and another stressed sister
Two nights ago I was planning to meet up with Mish for dinner. The roads were slick with rain and the air achingly frigid (yet bewildering still a smidgen warmer than an English summer) - the perfect night for heavy eastern European fare and lip smacking cider.
I rang Mish to check how far away she was from the restaurant. Sounding extremely blasé, she replied, “I hurt my back. I’m in an ambulance my way to hospital.”
I had visions of the worst possible injuries. Mish’s nonplussed attitude and vague answers didn’t help my now madcap state of mind.
By the time I reached the hospital she was as high as a kite from morphine – heckling the footy players on telly, chatting about Hawaii – and I was stroppy.
I am my Mother’s daughter, I discovered. I don’t lend well to hospital situations, even though I’ve worked in many. I kept thinking about all the possible outcomes and getting more and more short tempered and narkier by the minute.
After an x-ray it was discovered that she fractured her coccyx. She busted her butt. She cracked her arse.
Hopefully she is coming home today. Fingers crossed! I want to drink wine and watch ‘A Fish Called Wanda’ with her, as tonight is my last night in Sydney.