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So I'm currently typing this with one foot all bandaged and hiked up on the desk beside me because two days ago I fell getting out of the car. (Yes Interpeeps. I am a complete and total klutz. 30 years and I still have not mastered the art of walking).
I'm not really sure what happened other than we had just pulled into the driveway, having completed the 7 hour drive back from Savannah, and (unbeknownst to me) somewhere along I-75 my foot had fallen asleep. Only it wasn't the whole pins and needles tingly asleep, it was the "numb from mid-calf down and possesses no feeling (and therefore no stability) whatsoever" asleep. The foot version of a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale.
Which, if you're wondering, doesn't hold up very well when you're trying to walk.
I made it approximately one and a half steps when my ankle rolled, and I suddenly found myself walking on the top of my foot, which contains all those pesky little bones and tendons and whatnot that hold your toes on but are not really designed to support a hundred and cough cough pounds of weight. So naturally, my foot lodged an official complaint with the body parts union and dumped my butt on the ground.
Which is where Tony found me a few minutes later, sprawled out in a heap in the driveway with my purse and travel neck pillow and the leftover bag of trash from the Hardees we stopped at somewhere around Dalton, screaming not-nice words at the top of my lungs and trying not to cry in front of the neighbors.
Grace under pressure, that's me.
Eventually Tony had to carry me inside piggy back style (not as sexy as the two arm cradle, mind you, but better than the over-the-shoulder fireman's carry) because traitorous said foot no longer felt it necessary to support my weight, which makes walking slightly impossible. He wanted to go to the doctor to get it looked at, but I didn't think it was broken, so I was all for skipping the going to the doctor part. (Then again, I'm always for skipping the going to the doctor part, and we all know how well that's worked out for me in the past). I had him convinced that it wasn't worth the doctor's time right up until he caught me crawling to the bathroom that evening, foot dragging uselessly behind. Then he decided that maybe we should maybe get an x-ray or two:
Doctor: What happened?
Me: Ninja attack.
Doctor: ...
Me: Vicious ones.
Doctor: ...
Me: About 50 of them.
Doctor: Nurse! I'm going to need to see a brain scan done too!
(I tell you, some people in the medical field have no sense of humor. What ever happened to the whole "laughter is the best medicine" thing?)
Ninjas aside, x-rays revealed that it's just a really bad sprain of the ankle and the tendons that hold the bones on the top of my foot together. Unfortunately, there's not really much you can do for a sprain other than ice it and keep it elevated and try to dull the pain while you wait for traitorous foot to (literally) start pulling its weight again. But the good news?
* Nothing broke, so no hobbling around for 6 weeks in a walking boot (the height of fashion)
* The pain pills that the doctor gave me, while not exactly on the level of singing pink elephants, are enough to make me be all, "Foot? What foot?"
* I had just had a fresh pedi so at least my toenails were looking their best for the radiologist.
Silver lining, my friends. It's all you can hope for. So to recap: The foot and I are still not on speaking terms with each other, I have perfected a very complex limp-crawl-drag that I predict will very soon become the latest dance craze, and in the future, when ruthlessly dispatching angry roving gangs of vicious ninjas, remember to protect your feet.
I'm not really sure what happened other than we had just pulled into the driveway, having completed the 7 hour drive back from Savannah, and (unbeknownst to me) somewhere along I-75 my foot had fallen asleep. Only it wasn't the whole pins and needles tingly asleep, it was the "numb from mid-calf down and possesses no feeling (and therefore no stability) whatsoever" asleep. The foot version of a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale.
Which, if you're wondering, doesn't hold up very well when you're trying to walk.
I made it approximately one and a half steps when my ankle rolled, and I suddenly found myself walking on the top of my foot, which contains all those pesky little bones and tendons and whatnot that hold your toes on but are not really designed to support a hundred and cough cough pounds of weight. So naturally, my foot lodged an official complaint with the body parts union and dumped my butt on the ground.
Which is where Tony found me a few minutes later, sprawled out in a heap in the driveway with my purse and travel neck pillow and the leftover bag of trash from the Hardees we stopped at somewhere around Dalton, screaming not-nice words at the top of my lungs and trying not to cry in front of the neighbors.
Grace under pressure, that's me.
Eventually Tony had to carry me inside piggy back style (not as sexy as the two arm cradle, mind you, but better than the over-the-shoulder fireman's carry) because traitorous said foot no longer felt it necessary to support my weight, which makes walking slightly impossible. He wanted to go to the doctor to get it looked at, but I didn't think it was broken, so I was all for skipping the going to the doctor part. (Then again, I'm always for skipping the going to the doctor part, and we all know how well that's worked out for me in the past). I had him convinced that it wasn't worth the doctor's time right up until he caught me crawling to the bathroom that evening, foot dragging uselessly behind. Then he decided that maybe we should maybe get an x-ray or two:
Doctor: What happened?
Me: Ninja attack.
Doctor: ...
Me: Vicious ones.
Doctor: ...
Me: About 50 of them.
Doctor: Nurse! I'm going to need to see a brain scan done too!
(I tell you, some people in the medical field have no sense of humor. What ever happened to the whole "laughter is the best medicine" thing?)
Ninjas aside, x-rays revealed that it's just a really bad sprain of the ankle and the tendons that hold the bones on the top of my foot together. Unfortunately, there's not really much you can do for a sprain other than ice it and keep it elevated and try to dull the pain while you wait for traitorous foot to (literally) start pulling its weight again. But the good news?
* Nothing broke, so no hobbling around for 6 weeks in a walking boot (the height of fashion)
* The pain pills that the doctor gave me, while not exactly on the level of singing pink elephants, are enough to make me be all, "Foot? What foot?"
* I had just had a fresh pedi so at least my toenails were looking their best for the radiologist.
Silver lining, my friends. It's all you can hope for. So to recap: The foot and I are still not on speaking terms with each other, I have perfected a very complex limp-crawl-drag that I predict will very soon become the latest dance craze, and in the future, when ruthlessly dispatching angry roving gangs of vicious ninjas, remember to protect your feet.
