life

Double Dang It

I am writing this on the sofa, with my laptop atop my lap and my right foot wrapped in ice and elevated upon two large pillows.

As I was walking across the grass to my Aunt Stella’s burial plot this morning, I hit a soft spot  – a deep indentation – and down I went.  I had to take a minute before I could get up.  Partly because of the pain and partly because of the nausea. Thought I was going to hurl right there on someone’s grave.

It was the nausea that had me concerned because when I broke the same foot a few years – in a zillion places – I felt nauseated that time too, vomited actually.  But this time the pain was not as great as it was then so fingers crossed.

I got up and hobbled the rest of the way.  And as I stood there listening to my cousin say a few words about his mom, I felt woozy, thought I might pass out.  So I sat on the grass and leaned on a soldier’s headstone.  It was a military cemetery – beautiful.  Looks like Arlington.

As I got back in my car I thought it might just be a sprain.  It didn’t hurt much at all on the hour long drive home.  But I couldn’t put any weight on it at all when I tried to get out of my car.  Had to crawl into the house, down the hardwood hallway, across the ceramic tiled kitchen floor and then scoot down the basement stairs on my rear to get the boot I wore last time.

Even with the boot I can’t put any weight on it.  So I crawled back up the stairs, across the hard kitchen floor, back down the hard hallway into the carpeted (thank God) family room, where I intend to stay parked on the sofa ’til the hub gets home.  Unless the dogs need to go out.  And I need to refreeze my ice pack.  Dang it.

Last time the breaks didn’t show up on the x-ray – there was too much swelling.  The orthopedic specialist kept saying, “It’s presenting like a break but no break is showing on the x-ray.”  So he treated it like a sprain.  And sent me to physical therapy when it didn’t heal the way he expected it to.  For over a  month I was doing PT exercises on a foot broken in several places.  It took over a year to heal.  After an MRI and a few different specialists, I decided to treat it like a break.  I stayed completely off it for 6 weeks and it finally healed.  A bone scan, finally performed at the end of those six weeks, revealed multiple fractures.

The only help I accepted last time was a ride to Bible study once a week since I couldn’t drive with the boot on.  I cooked, took care of the friends, schlepped my broken foot all over town.  The hub got off scot free.

Why did I do everything myself?  Because, growing up in a family of seven children, I’ve been doing everything for myself since I was in the second grade.

But not this time.  I already called the hub and said not this time.  If it’s broken, he’s gonna’ have to wait on me hand and broken foot.

If it presents as broken but the x-ray says it’s not, he’s gonna’ have to wait on me hand and possibly broken foot until the swelling goes down and I can get another x-ray.  Not going through another year of that h-e-double-hockey-sticks.

And now I better get on the phone and cancel our hotel reservations.  Because there is no way we are going to be able to bebop around Traverse City this weekend.  Double dang it.

In response to The Daily Post’s very timely writing prompt: “I Am a Rock.”

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