So we had another little "wheelchair ramp" issue...but this time was much worse. Our van's AC was being repaired, and we were spending the day at my mother's house waiting for it to be fixed. I have been sick for about a week now, so when C flat-out refused to take a nap my mom graciously agreed to watch him so I could lay down for a few minutes.
So here's the really sad part...as I was trying to drift off to sleep, I kept thinking over and over that the wheelchair was in the back of my mom's van and she was going to have to get it out of there before she picked up her carpool. I kept thinking I should get up and do something about it, but in my half asleep state I never quite convinced my body to do it. Just before I fell asleep I remember thinking I'll help her as soon as I wake up...she won't leave for carpool before she wakes me up.
Yup, wrong about that one. When I woke up, I immediately remembered the wheelchair, and went downstairs to get started. I walked toward the kitchen and my mom was standing in the doorway looking at me. She said, "I had a little accident." (And I'm not really convinced this wasn't all my fault for not listening to the little voice prompting me to go downstairs.)
She had tried to get the chair out of the van herself, which she has done before several times, only this time the ramp slipped and the ramp, with the chair on it, landed on her foot. She doesn't remember, nor can any of us figure out, just how that ramp got off her foot. But she was doing it right before she needed to leave for carpool, so instead of waking me up, she just put a towel down on the floor of her van to catch the blood, and took off. She claims she thought it would be too hard to climb the stairs, but I fully blame it on her frequently-seen "I can do anything even though I am injured" attitude.
After convincing my mom she needed to go to the Urgent Care Center and didn't need to drive herself this time, we jumped in the car to head out. Just then C's PT pulled up to the house to do his therapy, so we left him, the PT, and my sister there together, and headed out once more.
Several stitches, a broken toe, and one ugly-looking walking boot later, mom was patched up good as new. Okay, not good as new, not at all. But she did have Vicodin, so that helps.
And would you believe that after all this, the next day she insisted on running around canning tomatoes from her garden? I'm not sure if she's crazy or amazing, but I supposed I really lean toward the latter. What I do know for sure is that a big factor in all this was my mom's unfailing desire to help me and my family in whatever way she can--a blessing that I am grateful for a thousand times over.