Feet and ankles are not safe in this house. I'm constantly hurting mine. For the last three weeks I've been answering, with a wry grin, the question of what I did to get put in the boot. I've had to fess up that I saw an elderly woman fall at the Rehab, where the hospice I volunteer for is located, and that I ran to help her and her husband, that I ran into the building to get help, then ran back to the woman and her husband. That's it. I ran. No, I didn't twist my ankle. No, I didn't trip. Nope, I didn't fall. I didn't even know there was a problem. See, it's a bum ankle. It always hurts. It took looking down and seeing the swelling to realize I had a new problem.
I'll see the orthopedist Wednesday and find out what's going on with my bones (two surgeries on the tibia and fibula to place a plate, screws, and a pin and to later remove them); apparently there are post surgery changes to the bones that are atypical and soft tissue damage. I'll find out if surgery is recommended or not. I've behaved and worn the boot for three weeks but I put my foot down yesterday that I wasn't putting the bastard back on. Period.
See, it's not bad enough that I hurt that ankle worse than usual--I had to go and dump an older CPU (think the heavy sum-bitches) across my feet last Thursday. So now the ankle hurts, but so do both feet. I've toyed with getting more x-rays...but let's be real. I can't wear two boots. Nope. And there's nothing really to be done but to wait for the feet to heal. I've been keeping off them as much as possible and hoping for the best.
Here's the thing. I've got this internal quota for how many times I can tolerate seeing a doctor and I'm at capacity. I'll wait it out, especially since I'm on the pain meds I can be on; I've got muscle relaxers. Really, what are they gonna do for me that I haven't already done.
So yesterday when I resolved to take the damn boot off my foot and be done with it, it was a blessing in disguise, as Rosie fell at her my mom's and sprained her ankle and is now on crutches...no way to help the child get around with the boot on my foot.
Rick and I spent the evening in the ER with Rosie while she got X-rays, her ankle wrapped, and her first pair of crutches. You know, you never forget your first pair of crutches. It's a special moment in a klutzy person's life. I remember mine...I had a motorcycle wreck in 8th grade...I've been on crutches more times than I can remember. Got my own personal wooden pair--old school. Hey, and next time, my right ankle screws up, I've got my own walking boot.
Rosie, after crying in the car that life was so hard and finding that a chocolate milkshake fixes a lot, decided she was going to be okay. She's getting round better with the crutches than I can. It's a good thing, too, if I've passed the klutzy gene to her.
Doesn't hurt that her big sister literally has her back just in case she wobbles.