I broke it.
I've been down for the count for a week, and today I proclaim my Independence From Lying Down With My Foot Elevated Above My Heart. Whatever benefit was supposed to come from lying around like a dead giant squid on the beach (one rigor mortis-afflicted tentacle raised above the rest) has, I'm sure, occured by now. I refuse - REFUSE! - to spend one more day watching TV on my couch.
Which sounds funny to me. "I'm tired of wallowing in self-pity with my foot propped up on pillows, my husband and children waiting on me hand and foot, my house being destroyed around me, while I distract myself with the mindless crap currently being called 'TV'!"
It happened last Tuesday. I was in a hurry to rush out the door and fetch Bri at the train station. This is our Tuesday night ritual. I pick him up, he changes into soccer-coach attire while I drive down the freeway, we head to Wendy's, I get the crispy chicken sandwich and a small Frosty ($2), he drops me off at the Family History Center, I experience pure genealogical bliss for the next four hours, he walks in and rudely interrupts my PAF Insight time and we go home.
My hallway was littered with toys and rather than have my errant children pick them up, I figured "we'll do it later" and stepped on a toy. This toy turned out to be a slippery little sucker and my right foot wobbled a few times. My left foot, in sheer and utter panic, came down more quickly than it's used to, and in an unaccustomed position (unless standing on your ankle bone with your foot turned 90° to one side is normal). I heard something pop and fell on my butt screaming my head off. My first broken bone? Yes - why do you ask?
Later that night, the ever-so-witty X-ray technician said, "I can't tell you anything about your foot, but let me ask you this: do you know any bone doctors?"
"No..."
"Well, you will now."
I have since developed a new fashion sense, prominently featuring a severe case of bed head, no bra, a pair of old black elastic waist knit pants cut off at the knee, and my lovely black boot. And lots of nail polish. After all, I have nothing to do but lie around and grow my nails, and my feet have to look cute when I go back to the doctor's office (especially with one foot sporting a gnarly bruise).
Family and friends have been sympathetic and helpful. Mom sent a beautiful bouquet of pink roses and white carnations. No Cool Story brought us a wonderful dinner of pizza, rotisserie chicken, salad and pop. Annie and Compulsive Writer</a> kindly blogged for me, and Annie even went the second mile and made my chicken go poop. After all these months, I'm sure the chicken was quite relieved. CW's "go back to bed and put your feet up like the good doctor said" remark probably makes a lot more sense now, doesn't it?
Wednesday morning at 10:45, I will submit my foot to further inspection and find out if the boot will continue to do it for my healing process, or if my foot will need a cast. The break wasn't bad enough that it had to be set or needed surgery (all I could think Tuesday night was, "I'm so grateful"), and apparently the doctor wanted to let my foot swell and then un-swell before he put anything long-term on it. Let's all think happy boot thoughts for my foot. I like taking it off to sleep at night and being able to, you know, shower.
So if you think I've been acting like a major snob lately and not commenting on your blog much, blame my doctor for not letting me have my usual 3-hours-a-day stint at the computer and forcing me to, instead, become a couch potato and watch incessant showings of WarGames</em> (which is NOT rated R).
Now that you've read my tale of woe, please enjoy this extremely stupid (I cannot stress this enough) video. Melanie called me from work to tell me about it. Beware the milky pirate!