Last week my mom and sister and her kids came to our little part of Oz for a short visit. I was a busy beaver spiffing the joint up for their arrival. While the inside was in pretty good shape, the screened-in porch was not. Between the buckets of pollen that have fallen from above all spring followed by buckets of rain, everything out there was a green, grimy mess – which tends to happen when you insist that the inside should marry the outside. I got my trusty Clorox spray and a rag and went to town.
For about five minutes.
As I stood on the threshold of the kitchen door wiping the ledge on the porch, I noticed something that needed to be put away STAT and headed that way. Whatever THAT was I cannot remember, and in my hurry to get to it I might have considered looking where I was about to step. I put my dainty, little left foot down and shoved my clodhopper right foot through the handle of a basket that was on the ground just to the right of me.
I went flying. Or staggering-half-barreling-epic falling to the ground.
In my tumble I smashed my foot on the concrete floor which ummmmm, hurt like a mother. Then I felt like throwing up.
Mal heard the commotion and came out. I was having trouble saying much of anything with the foot pain and overall barfiness but I did manage to ask her to get me an ice pack. I hobbled to a chair and put my banged up foot up on another chair and let the ice do its thing for awhile. When I got up I put my weight on it and was mildly successful. I heeled it to the ibuprofen bottle.
Maggie and I had already made plans to go to Target and Homegoods which was essential to my goal of creating the perfect family entertaining ambiance. I needed a battery operated pillar candle or everyone was going to be completely miserable during their visit. I found my cushioniest flip flops, slipped in one fat foot and one normal sized foot and got in her car. “Are you sure about this, Mom? You’re limping pretty bad.”
No, I wasn’t at all sure but I have always thought if you take your mind off your troubles you’ll feel better which explained the immediate need to get to Target.
I gimped myself through both stores with no luck in finding the battery operated pillar candle in the cool color I envisioned and thought I so desperately needed. I covered a lot of square footage with that bum foot and had nothing to show for it except some outdoor lights for the patio that I was smart enough to realize weren’t going to get hung for awhile. Or probably ever.
Mark came home and repeated what his daughter had already said, “You’re limping pretty bad. You did a number on that foot, honey.”
By the next morning I was no longer limping pretty bad because I couldn’t put any weight on it at all and so we went to the emergency room. I was reminded that a real ER has nothing in common with what is depicted on t.v. or in movies. There is absolutely no urgency – even for the guy who was sweating and clutching his chest while his wife pleaded twice for someone to look at him immediately. “I see you,” the registration clerk said as if she was playing peek-a-boo with a toddler rather than a middle-aged guy with chest pains who already had a pacemaker. “Give me just one more minute.”
“That one behind the desk is a cog in the wheel,” Mark said icily. “You know what a cog does? It f**** everything up.”
I nodded and said, “If I’m like that call an ambulance even if I say not to. I heard that you get seen faster if you come by ambulance.”
“You’d bitch about the copay on an ambulance,” Mark said back and he was right. I’d be at the mercy of Cog Lady which sent a shudder down my spine.
Just then I was called back and hopped the length of a football field to get to the exam room. “I should have gotten you a wheelchair,” the nurse said sympathetically. “Yes, that would have been helpful,” I said as I did a last hop onto the bed. The doctor had the good sense not to touch my foot and was pretty sure it was a bad sprain. “Does it hurt to walk on it,” he asked. “Well,” I said nodding to the nurse, “she about did me in.” They chuckled and offered me a Vicodin. I declined.
We waited for the xray machine to show up.
“Mark, I can’t do crutches,” I whined in the meantime. “Everyone who’s ever had them says they suck. If I can get by with Das Boot I’d be so happy.”
We cracked up at my funny and his favorite movie about a German submarine that made me claustrophobic just watching it. We watched the minutes tick by and twice somebody came in and said we could turn the t.v. on. I couldn’t figure out what sort of t.v. one watches in the ER and instead I listened in on what the staff was ordering for lunch.
Eventually I got my xray and it confirmed that I did break a bone. I also hyper-extended my toes when I fell and had some messed up ligaments. “We’ll put you in a boot,” the doctor said and I about jumped with joy on my one good foot. A Vicodin was offered. I declined. Someone came in for a fitting. “What do you bet this foam thing gets billed to the insurance company for $800.00,” I joked to Mark.
But not really because it probably does.
When I stepped down I thought all my troubles would be over and my foot wouldn’t hurt a bit but that was not the case. Mark went and got the car and I started the long, slow, painful trek to the pickup area, grateful that I relented and took a prescription for Vicodin.
Since then I’ve had to baby it some but have managed within the last week to go to an outlet mall, vintage market, pizza place, Panera Bread, the grocery store, another trip to Target and a soccer game.
What a trooper!
Or what a gigantic idiot for not staying off of it so it can heal!!
I won’t be able to tell until next week’s orthopedist appointment and follow-up xray, but on the agenda for tomorrow is a job interview.
Das Boot will be coming along. My footwear is losing its charm in this summer heat and like the movie is making me feel a wee bit claustrophobic. In the end, though, it may be very useful after all.
It’s hard to slam the door on a fat, overpriced padded shoe.
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| My what big handles you have. |
