Broken feet and good brothers

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the struggle is real

I did not have the best weekend. On Friday night, I fell on the sidewalk outside my apartment (YES, I had been drinking juuuuust a little) and twisted my left foot HARD. As I screamed in pain and melodramatically wailed that “I WAS DYYYYING,” my little brother, who had come earlier in the week to visit me from Los Angeles and is an ex-college football player with his fair experience of injuries, calmly ascertained that I did not have any bones sticking through my skin. He then hoisted me up on my good foot and half-dragged me back to my building and up the three-and-a-half flights of stairs to my apartment to deposit me on my bed, all the while ignoring the creepy stares of half-a-dozen street kids who were looking at me in disdain (I was crying and being very uncool).

The next day, he spent over four hours with me at UCSF urgent care, wheeling me to get xrays and fetching me Starbucks (yay!) and purchasing and setting up my new crutches (ugh). When they told me I’d fractured a bone in my foot and sent me on a wild goose chase to purchase a special boot to wear, he took me in three different Ubers to two different medical supply stores, one of which may or may not have been a front for the Russian mob. While we waited for the second Uber, he let me lean on him while I cried, swore, and sweated–the first store we’d been referred to was unexpectedly closed and I did not take it well. “I HATE MY LIFE!” I screamed, drama queen that I am, as he smiled apologetically to frightened passerby in the Richmond.

Once we made it back to my apartment on Saturday evening, he helped me elevate my foot, ice it, got me food, and has spent the last forty-eight hours helping with everything from picking up prescriptions and doing the laundry to lifting my spirits and entertaining me. I am especially grateful for him to introducing me to the unholy experience of watching “The Room” sober:

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YOU’RE TEARING ME APART, LISA!

In short,  I am THE WORST at being sick/injured, and my brother has been an absolute fucking angel. I’m desperately grateful that he’s here–not just that he happened to be around on Friday night (that was more than lucky), but that he’s here on the planet at all. I love my brother to death, but I never realized until this weekend how lucky am I to have him. He is one of a handful of people on Earth who could have witnessed my ridiculous and childish depressed behavior in the face of an obnoxious and inconvenient–but hardly calamitous–injury over the past few days and still been patient and helpful throughout. He is also the only member of that select group of family and friends who would still like me after this weekend who is strong enough to help carry me up three flights of stairs, which is convenient.

So, yeah, being injured has sucked, and will continue to suck for a little while (we find out tomorrow if I need surgery or not–fingers crossed for not!), but if nothing else, it’s reminded me how lucky I am to have such a wonderful sibling. Thank you, Bryan*, I love you. And to those of you who have great brothers or sisters, hug them or text them “I love you” tonight on behalf of my own broken foot, as well as the medical supply store on Clement that may or may not be a front for the Russian mob. Mobsters or not, it’s obviously run by a close-knit family!

*I would include a picture of Bryan here, but he deleted his Facebook years ago and prefers to remain elusive on the internet, as far as I can tell. If you want to picture him in your mind, just imagine what if James Franco and Seth Rogen had a third best friend who was in all their movies together with them, but that best friend isn’t Jay Baruchel or Jonah Hill and is in his late twenties and wears gap button-down shirts with cargo shorts and needs a haircut desperately. ???

 

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