I broke my foot!
Oh my god, I broke my foot.
I've never broken a bone in my entire life.
That was such an unbelievable reality that I was convinced that when I died, I would simultaneously break every bone in my body. That is truly how I thought I would go.
But no. Not anymore. I'm talking to Rob...
"Every time I stub my toe, I'm reminded of how painless my life used to be."
*WHACK*
You know you've really injured yourself when serious injury doesn't hurt.
It's the calm before the tsunami of pain.
You have about three or four seconds to situate yourself in such a way that when you collapse, you wouldn't land ass-first on a cactus.
I called Michael just as the pain hit. I knew. Everyone knows. It's their body.
"I just broke my foot," I said.
"We're going to the hospital," he declared.
"No we're not," I argued.
"What?!" he was flabbergasted. Like he always is. Seventy-five years and this shit still surprises him.
Last time I listened to him about hospitals, I spent months bare-assed in front of old people. All to find out they don't know anything except that they like looking at naked girls. Not again.
"It's not broken," I insisted, "Nobody breaks their own foot like that. It's too silly."
We smash our toes all the time and we don't run to the hospital. I'm not running to the hospital just because it hurts. Everything hurts. I'm not a pansy.
I'm especially not going to pay someone $150 for two aspirin and a prescription to call them in the morning. I was
fine. Just needed rest, elevation, and ice.
An hour and a half, ice, and elevation later, it was swollen, blue, and purple.
And it hurt like I'd stubbed it five seconds earlier.
If you treat it and it doesn't get better, it means the problem isn't what you think it is.
And if my toes fell off, I'd never hear the end of it.
"Fine, we can go to the hospital," I caved.
Michael jumped off the couch and grabbed my purse.
As soon as I stood up, I realized how injured I was. I couldn't stand. I couldn't walk. My teeth started to chatter with the adrenaline in response to the pain.
Not that this would stop me.Actually, I didn't stub it. I kicked the wall and bent my toes in a wholly unnatural fashion and I broke my foot. But there was a 10% chance I didn't actually break anything, right? Seriously, toes are like Play Doh. We mash them all the time. And they serve no real purpose except for balancing us.
We drove to the nearest hospital. Michael saw the word "Emergency" and parked under it.
Five hundred feet from the entrance.
In the second-to-farthest-away space.
I walked.
On my broken foot.
"You want me to carry you?" he asked.
"I will snap your neck like a twig if you touch me," I snarled, walking, my eyes leaking over my cheeks. I walked into the emergency room with, really, just a broken foot, and Michael hollered over me, "Her foot's broken!"
A nurse put me in a wheelchair.
Seriously, I'm not a war victim. I hurt my own foot. I don't need to be pampered.
Still, I never realized how comfortable those chairs are.
Which, in retrospect, was an observation I probably should have kept to myself.
Michael admitted his secret fetish for stealing wheelchairs, which were stored in the film department of his school.
The things you learn after 105 years of marriage.
That's when I started texting people to tell them I was in the hospital but alive.
Everybody gets mad at me because I never tell them until it's over. So, "Hi Mom, I'm in the hospital! Don't know anything yet!"
That was when Michael pushed me to this spot and paid the guy next to me five bucks to stretch out his arm and tap the back of my chair in a little "push."
That's the real reason they don't allow cell phones at the hospital.
I really love being married to Michael. It's a nonstop comedy skit. We're like a vaudeville romance. We were making it a game to make every nurse laugh out loud.
Yeah, my foot hurt, but it was fine as long as I didn't stand on it.
Which was actually worse, really. I'd rather be in pain than be giddy and giggly, popping wheelies in a wheelchair while the guy next to me is bleeding from the eyes.
But...then they put on Family Guy and I forgot what I was saying.
Finally, the doctor came in to see us.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"No, I'm fine. I
walked in here," I replied.
"I made her walk in here," Michael interrupted, "Her foot is broken."
We both looked at him.
"Bitch had it comin'," he elaborated in a language few understand.
I defended him, "He really wanted me to come here first. He didn't break my foot. He's a big panda pansy and I'm fine. I just want to go home."
"Does this hurt?" she asked, bending the purple, swollen parts.
Emily Rose, you ain't got nothing on me.
She gave me two percocet, which is apparently two more percocet than I should have, and I was suddenly overcome by a cold sweat, dizziness, and nausea...which sucked, since I couldn't walk. On the bright side, it is apparently damn sexy.
Michael proceeded to feel me up and I reminded him that this hospital was not a medical university. On our six month anniversary, we had sex in a medical university, only to be caught by a mafia hitman disguised as a black janitor, who then paid us $200 to buy him three pizzas. This quickly devolved into a debate comparing hospitals to medical universities. It's my vote that hospitals are a step down in the marking ladder, and I had the broken foot.
I tried to walk. Michael informed the nurses that they couldn't offer to let me travel anywhere alone because I'd break my other foot rather than inconvenience them. My foot wasn't broken. But it still hurt like hell to walk. So I rode the maxi-pad cot. Which, when you are fully conscious, is about the silliest thing there is.
As I was rolled along on my maxi-pad cot, one of the nurses called out, "That's the girl with the husband who made her walk on her broken foot." Appearances are magical things.
So they x-rayed me. I was still convinced there was nothing wrong with me and I just blew a $150 co-payment because my husband is an overprotective ass. I told the x-ray girl that no one breaks her own toe. Rocks fall, they tumble down the stairs, horses stampede, something happens. I don't have the muscle to break my own bones, much less my foot.
She said it happens all the time. I told her I'd pray for more interesting things to happen to her than "happens all the time." They work in a hospital. That is the razor's edge of Darwinism. Then I met the finance guy, and pitied the poor guy. Told him my story. He laughed. Everybody laughed. It wasn't a bad night but I really shouldn't have been there.
Finally the doctor came back in. I actually broke my foot.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"The good news is, we don't have to (re-set) any of the bones," she replied.
"Where did I break it?" I asked.
She pointed to the bones beneath the toe joints, where the foot meets the toes.
"Oh Christ," I whined.
"Does it come with a cast?" Michael chirped, "I want to sign a cast!"
"Really, he just wants something to draw on," I teased, "If you have some crayons and a coloring book, he'll leave you alone all night."
"I sense your frustration," she sympathized.
"This is my first break!" I protested, "I wanted it to be like, 'Girl breaks her arm saving Tokyo from demon invasion,' but this? This is too stupid to be real. Toes don't even
do anything!"
"Yes they do," she corrected.
"What, balance?" I asked.
"No, they
hurt," she laughed.
Woman has a point.
A week home from work and off my feet. Another six to eight weeks to heal.
So much for joining the rollergirls.
On the bright side, it'll give me a chance to catch up on a lot of projects.
I can't believe I broke my foot.
Unknown "Death by Sami" Cheeky
- 16 years, 7 months, 16 days ago
