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Gotta love turning older. Seems like my engine doesn’t rev up like it used to, and I’ve read more outdated magazines in doctor’s offices than I would like.

I’m officially old. Or certainly feel it.

And it was a normal Saturday, as I woke up in bed excited to not hear the annoying ringtone on my cell that I’m too lazy to change and get a solid 9 hours of consecutive sleep.

I stood up to go make the kids breakfast because it turns out they expect that daily, and pain shot through my lower left leg. Not normal pain. More like vein pain. And it forced me right back down on the bed. I tried to shrug it off, ignoring the aches throughout the day, only to find a reddish bruise and a swollen leg and foot the following morning.

It was sort of a like a game of ‘One of these things is not like the other.’ I limped around all day, popping ibuprofen and hoping it was some weird ailment that would disappear as fast as the cupcake I had purchased the day before. Hubby doted on me for a bit, and the following morning my foot had nearly doubled in size, think Fred Flinstone-sized, alarming my children enough to send them running to the kitchen to ‘make’ me breakfast in bed. I asked for a protein bar and fruit, anything to keep the house from burning down. Breakfast turned out to be them eating MY food next to me in bed, though no complaints, and questions like, ‘Will your foot look like THAT forever?’ God, lets hope not.

After dinner with my sisters, they insisted I head to the ER. I’m a bit stubborn, as spending 4 hours in a flimsy gown and sharing my life story including where I last used the restroom isn’t my idea of fun. They also usually ask when my last ‘cycle’ took place. Yet, I don’t bike?!? And aren’t we talking about my LEG?

‘Go to the damn ER!,‘ my sister text.

Sisters can get away with that, sort of an unwritten rule that doesn’t really fly with friends. So I took their advice and headed to the nearest hospital, dreading the bill before I even parked my car in the lot. Another text, this time from my younger sister…

‘I don’t really think you’re going, just because you say you are. Send me a pic of the hospital when you arrive.’

The ER pic I sent to my sister.

The ER pic I sent to my sister.

Seriously? I now have to prove I’m doing what I say I’m doing? Aren’t we lucky to have photo-texting to prove to our loved ones we aren’t liars? I laughed as I hit send, but it kept her quiet. For ten minutes anyway.

Once checked in, both sisters were lighting up my phone with various questions before I had slipped in to the fashionable gown the wrong way. ‘Ties go in the back, not the front,’ the nurse said with a smile. Of course they do.

The doctor arrived, and I immediately realized he was not here to make friends. Me, neither, though I am half-dressed, so a smile here or there would have been comforting. He was all business, and looked at my phone twice as it vibrated 17 times with texts from both sisters while I recounted the details of my oversized, pathetic foot.

‘What’s the doctor saying? Is it bad? Does he have an idea of what it is? Michelle doesn’t believe you’re really there, so please send a text of you INSIDE the ER.’

The outside photo I had sent earlier featuring huge letters that spelled the word EMERGENCY didn’t appear satisfying, and I was accused of possibly driving by, taking the pic, then going home.

So, I sent another.

Thank goodness I had just gotten a pedicure, right?

Thank goodness I had just gotten a pedicure, right?

Happy now? Of course, enough time had passed that I had been given an ultrasound of my leg. ‘Any chance you would be pregnant?’ the tech asked. I responded with laughter, saying that would be some interesting news to text my sisters: Foot is fine, but I’m expecting. (They might need a pic of that, too.) ‘Uh, no…no chance.’ Some blood work, and more texts appeared.

‘Update, please? Are you alone? What are they saying?’

Of course, I had no news at the time, so I sent a photo of my leg and foot in its current state.

Imagine waking up to THIS...

Imagine waking up to THIS…

Not surprisingly, I received these responses:

OMG!’ from one sister. ‘Huuuuuge,’ from another.

And before I knew it, Dr. Less-than-Friendly tells me my ailment is nothing more than a superficial clot, thromboplebitis-something, and to take some meds. It was a ‘Nothing-serious-though-you-look-hideous’ diagnosis.

And off I went.

Laughing all the way home about my sister’s texts, sprinkled in with the two I received from my husband, which were.

Him: ‘Anything?’

Me: It’s a superficial clot, no worries. Heading home.’

Him: OK.

No photo requests to prove the outcome. No overwhelming concern. Just a guy needing a simple answer. Meanwhile, my entire visit had been documented for my sisters, as if they were right there with me.

Because isn’t that what sisters are for?