Of all the stupid things I have ever done, this takes the cake. I was on my computer, as many of us are first thing in the morning, when I was writing about world peace, an alternative fuel source for the world or something very close to that, when the clock struck 11:00. I had been sitting in my wooden chair at the billiard/dining room table with pillows propped up under my bum, sitting on my foot so I could be high enough to reach the keypad. I decided to get another cup of coffee, and when I stood up I looked at my foot. It was at a 90° angle, and I thought, ‘That’s a strange position, why can’t I feel my foot?’ And down I went like a sack of potatoes. I heard a crunch. The same sound when you crack a chicken wing in half, normally an enjoyable sound and my first reaction was to scream, ‘Alfonz I think I broke my foot!’
Now in all fairness to my lovely husband, he often hears me scream. No, not like that. (Dirty minds!) Random things throughout the day, so when he shouted back, ‘I’m going to the dechetterie with a load of garbage!’ I didn’t get angry. In fact I figured he was probably right, nothing to worry about, me being overly dramatic. But then my face flushed red and I got really sweaty. I got up, hobbled to the toilet just in time to reach the bathroom before my body heaved up the last cup of coffee. At that moment I knew my body was trying to tell me something. The human body is so cool right?
I couldn’t feel any pain in my foot. I have an unnatural high tolerance for pain, and I knew that, so I wasn’t convinced I was ok. Before Alfonz got home, I went upstairs, stripped the beds, got the laundry down stairs and finished all the things I should have been doing instead of solving world problems on Facebook… I mean for the UN…
When Alfonz arrived he said it is most likely a sprain and best to walk it off. I agreed, as Alfonz has had so many broken and sprained limbs, I thought he must know best. We went for a walk around Bricco Marche as you do after spraining your ankle or pulling a ligament. When we got back I thought maybe it’s fine, and continued hobbling around the house doing my normal chores.
The next morning when I woke up my foot was the size of Montreal and I couldn’t put my full weight on it. Either that meant it was time for a serious diet or it was actually broken. I got myself dressed, and after some convincing, Alfonz dropped my off at the doctor’s office.
Dr. Boudet wasn’t convinced it was only a sprain, so he sent me to the Narbonne emergency room just to rule it out. Even then Alfonz was like drive yourself, it isn’t broken, it’s a sprain. Buck up big baby! No he didn’t actually say that, but it felt like he did. And I was in the car when I thought, no he has to drive me, because if it is broken how in the world will I get home in a plaster cast from Narbonne?
After some negotiations, he finally got in the car and got me to Narbonne by 11:30. The emergency clinic had two people before us, one guy bleeding on the floor, and what looked like a serious arm wound. And another lady waiting for results. I couldn’t understand why the doctors didn’t send the man in straight away. Triage normally treats people by the degree of injury. I figured that he might actually die. In true French fashion, he patiently (almost embarrassed), he tried to keep his blood from getting everywhere, politely waited for his turn while trying to hold his arm on… anyways… within a few minutes I was already inside having an X Ray. Incredible! I must have time warped, because this is unheard of!
I invited Alfonz to come in to see the X Ray. His eyes became super wide and his jaw actually dropped. He said, ‘It sure is broken!’
‘Really, you can tell by the X Ray?’ He pointed to a clean piece of bone on the outside of my right foot that was floating next to my foot skeleton in the X Ray. Which translates to three weeks in a plastic velcro cast, just in time for our big trip to Budapest to visit family over Christmas. No 10 hours walking around Budapest for me. Excellent timing, and yes I am a total idiot to get the injury most people get after 80 years old! It has put a damper on things for certain! And just in time for my 42nd birthday too! BOO!
The funniest part of this, is when people ask me, OMG what happened? I am tempted to say, it’s a running injury you know repetitive motion, or new runners they weren’t properly worn in yet, but everyone knows I don’t run unless someone is chasing me. They might believe that I fell off my bike again, like last year when I almost ended up in the canal, knocking my back out of place for nearly three months. I could say I broke my foot drunken dancing in platform shoes, that’s a believable story and actually happened in my youth. I have broken nearly all my toes, genetically it is not my fault, I have those long toes often mistaken for transplanted fingers. Greek feet they call em’!
Alfonz has been a good sport, and other than the complete meltdown I had in Beziers when trying to work the French crutches for the first time, I think my spirits have remained high. That could be from the medications… hey whatever it takes.
My only question, is why don’t the crutches in France go all the way up to your armpits? The hardest part of the pain has nothing to do with my injured foot, but my body trying to compensate while balancing my weight on these stupid arm crutches. I have taken so many anti inflammatories and rubbed down my sore joints, honestly that’s the biggest pain in my ass, although there is not actual pain in my ass. Not yet anyway.