That was Saturday. Stepped off a curb, my right ankle gave out and my foot twisted and I went down, hard. The thing is, this happens to me so often that while it hurt -- it REALLY hurt -- I decided to ignore it. I was leaving my friend Kate's place, on my way home to get ready for a date. I sat on the curb for a minute, debated calling Kate to come help me inside, and then got in my car and drove home. And got ready for my date.
I was aware, this entire time, that my foot was hurting probably more than it should, given my prior experience with such things. I decided to ignore that and go out, because 1) I hate making a big deal out of something that turns out to be nothing and 2) I had a date. This doesn't happen THAT often, and I didn't want to cancel to sit home by myself and think about how my foot hurt.
I arrived at the restaurant and proceeded to have a lovely time for the next several hours, except for how much my foot hurt. And kept hurting. And got worse. Date said several times "Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the ER?" No, no, I kept saying, I'll go home and put some ice on it, and will see how it is in the morning.
I got up to limp to the bathroom a couple of times and by the last time I did this, I knew I was in bad shape. Half an hour or so later when we got up to go, I couldn't put any weight on it and date had to help me to my car. At this point if it hadn't been a first date I might have had him take me to the ER, but seriously? On a first date? Awkward!
During the 15 minute drive home I became aware that putting pressure on my foot from the gas pedal was causing pain to kind of shoot up the back of my leg. Also my toes were kind of tingly. Then I realized that to get out of my car and to my front door, I'd probably have to crawl, or hang on to the side of the house; and I realized, too, that if I got inside and got up tomorrow and it was worse, I'd have a really hard time getting myself back out of the house to go to urgent care.
So I stayed in the car and took myself off to the ER. Usually when I'm at the ER it's for one of the kids, or one of my parents, to be honest; it's a surreal experience to be there by oneself. I had a brief flare of hope that maybe I'd have a cute resident, since, after all, typically one is at the ER in pajama pants that have been vomited on, or a bloody shirt; I still looked fairly cute in my sparkly tank top and skinny jeans. But no.
I got to go to x-ray right away, then sat on a gurney in the hall for a long time listening to nurses and techs and residents have the same conversation over and over about the time change. There was a drug-seeker getting more and more irate because no one was giving her drugs, which she seemed to think violated her constitutional rights. Finally she got up off her hallway gurney and stomped out. I thought she she be more appreciative of having the ability to stomp, really, unlike some people.
|Hedgebaby with three broken legs. Which is awful, but way cuter than me.|
Then it occurred to me and the medical student that I wouldn't be allowed to drive home with this temporary splint on my foot. And it was three am. (Four, if you didn't factor the time change into account.) Fortunately my lovely sister who lives 20 minutes away was up, for no good reason, and came to get me, drove me home, got me in the house, and tucked me in.