So I broke my foot falling off a curb. Again.
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.
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| Hedgebaby with three broken legs. Which is awful, but way cuter than me. |
|
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The resident, eventually, confirmed a
fracture
of the fifth metatarsal, otherwise known as the bone I have broken
twice before. I had to take my pants of to get a splint, because of
COURSE I was wearing my skinny jeans; then I had to sit around in a gown
while they looked for some scrub pants for me to wear home because of
course the jeans wouldn't go back on over the splint. (Although, now I
have scrub pants, so, score!) After splinting me, the med student was
writing up the order and had to ask me how to spell "crutches."
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.
