My simple everyday chore routine quickly turned into a trip to the emergency room that I will never forget, all thanks to a Barbie bicycle and my overzealous attitude. It was a typical Saturday morning consisting of spring cleaning and the aroma of Pine Sol swept the house. As I diligently rationalized every excuse that came into my mind on how to avoid my mother’s dreaded assigned Saturday chores, I heard my mother holler for me to come into the kitchen. “Yes Ma’am?”, I timidly questioned, holding on to every hope that she does not tell me to do the chore that I despise wholeheartedly: taking out the garbage. “Will you do me a favor?”, she pleaded in her most appealing voice, “Please take out this garbage for me.” NO! I felt like belting
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Reluctantly, I snatched up the crammed full trash bag and barged out the front door. Meanwhile, the garbage bag felt as though it was getting heavier and heavier by the second. I looked down our porch ramp and saw my little sister’s pink, Barbie bicycle lying right at the end of the ramp. I had two choices standing before me at this point: I could set the garbage bag down and move the bicycle out of my path, or I could run full force down the ramp gaining enough momentum to thrust myself over the bicycle and land unharmed on the other side. Being the confident, nine-year-old daredevil that I was, I chose the option that was appealing to my mind, despite the risky nature of the idea. Therefore, I took a few steps backward and with no hesitation took off full speed down the ramp, garbage bag in …show more content…
I let my mind wander into a daydream of different remedies when suddenly I snapped back into reality when my mother slung open the van door and assisted me into an awaiting wheelchair. “We are going to fix you all up so do not worry sweetheart.” , a nurse assured me. Feeling more at ease, I enjoyed the ride through the emergency room to an empty bed awaiting me. They hoisted me on the bed so the doctor could check my laceration more clearly. “Looks like you have played too hard.”, the doctor assumed. “I was not playing.” I offensively snapped back , “I was taking out the trash.” He then began explaining every step he was taking starting with numbing my wound. While he smoothly inserted the numbing shot into my gash, he announced that stitches would be the best treatment for my injury. “Stitches? No big deal.” I dauntlessly vocalized to the doctor. Although I seemed to be unafraid on the outside, on the inside I was ready to nestle up into a fetal position and cry about the upcoming procedure. Distracted by my own thoughts of the fear of stitches, I did not even notice the doctor had already started sewing my leg together. I anxiously eyed the doctor’s steady hands move around and around as he created each stitch as if it was second nature to him. “All done.” He proudly stated. I reached down and touched the foreign spikes pointing out of my leg. Even though they were not appealing to the
Reluctantly, I snatched up the crammed full trash bag and barged out the front door. Meanwhile, the garbage bag felt as though it was getting heavier and heavier by the second. I looked down our porch ramp and saw my little sister’s pink, Barbie bicycle lying right at the end of the ramp. I had two choices standing before me at this point: I could set the garbage bag down and move the bicycle out of my path, or I could run full force down the ramp gaining enough momentum to thrust myself over the bicycle and land unharmed on the other side. Being the confident, nine-year-old daredevil that I was, I chose the option that was appealing to my mind, despite the risky nature of the idea. Therefore, I took a few steps backward and with no hesitation took off full speed down the ramp, garbage bag in …show more content…
I let my mind wander into a daydream of different remedies when suddenly I snapped back into reality when my mother slung open the van door and assisted me into an awaiting wheelchair. “We are going to fix you all up so do not worry sweetheart.” , a nurse assured me. Feeling more at ease, I enjoyed the ride through the emergency room to an empty bed awaiting me. They hoisted me on the bed so the doctor could check my laceration more clearly. “Looks like you have played too hard.”, the doctor assumed. “I was not playing.” I offensively snapped back , “I was taking out the trash.” He then began explaining every step he was taking starting with numbing my wound. While he smoothly inserted the numbing shot into my gash, he announced that stitches would be the best treatment for my injury. “Stitches? No big deal.” I dauntlessly vocalized to the doctor. Although I seemed to be unafraid on the outside, on the inside I was ready to nestle up into a fetal position and cry about the upcoming procedure. Distracted by my own thoughts of the fear of stitches, I did not even notice the doctor had already started sewing my leg together. I anxiously eyed the doctor’s steady hands move around and around as he created each stitch as if it was second nature to him. “All done.” He proudly stated. I reached down and touched the foreign spikes pointing out of my leg. Even though they were not appealing to the