When your friend breaks her leg and has surgery, you do the only logical thing: volunteer as chauffeur to her follow-up appointment… even if that means braving morning traffic with a set of crutches in the backseat and a co-pilot who is the definition of a backseat driver.
We hit the road in good spirits, but between idiot drivers and neither of us being totally sure where we were going, the trip turned into a scenic tour of “accidental” turns and muttered commentary. I love her to pieces, but she could give GPS a run for its money in the “constantly recalculating” department.
Naturally, we made a pit stop at Chick-fil-A—because nothing says “you’re healing beautifully” like chicken minis and hash browns. Once we got to the doctor’s office, I grabbed her a wheelchair and off she went, rolling like she was late for the starting line of a NASCAR race.
She was a total trooper through the pain… until it came time for the stitches to come out. The look on her face was somewhere between “I’m fine” and “I will haunt you if you make me do this again.” The real blow, though, came when the doctor informed her she had even more time of no pressure on her foot, plus a mountain of physical therapy ahead.
Naturally, I did what any good friend would do—I tried to keep her laughing. I managed a few giggles, but I also got a healthy dose of her signature smart-aleck remarks. She’s over the pain, over being stuck in bed, and definitely over me pretending to be her motivational speaker.
But that’s the thing about friendship—sometimes it’s about showing up, driving through chaos, fetching wheelchairs, and tossing in just enough sarcasm to make the day bearable.
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