And then the day's plans changed. I was standing in the driveway, the puppy happily trying to crunch gravel (no I didn't let her), and my left ankle buckled. I wasn't moving (although Kathleen theorizes that I moved slightly and my good --left-- ankle wasn't ready and "fainted" on me), just standing there quietly, thinking it was a pretty day and then I was on my ass, screaming, then crying, my forehead resting on said gravel while the puppy dug her way into the gravel with her little butt to me, completely ignoring my distress.
We live in what used to be the country, and what is still a quiet, rural neighborhood with little traffic. I lay in the driveway, alternating my crying (blubbering--not pretty) with laughter, because really? WTF? My cell was in the house, my neighbor was obviously not outside smoking, Kurt was tucked away in his trailer, and the damn puppy was ignoring me.
I thought about crawling on hands and knees to the house and up the steps, dragging the puppy on the leash. I decided against that.
I thought about hollering, but since the crying, laughing, and initial scream hadn't drawn any attention...
I thought about waiting for the mail lady to drive by...
for Rick to come home for lunch...
In the end, since the dog wasn't paying attention, no one was driving by, and time seemed to be tick-tocking incredibly slowly and I figured I looked kinda stupid lying in the driveway next to a puppy chewing gravel, I decided to try and get up and hobble to the house.
I've broken my right ankle--nasty open compound fracture. In Germany. At a frigging zoo, no less. I don't think I blubbered then.
I sprained the right ankle last year running to help a woman who'd fallen and ended up in a boot for a month.
I had a heavy CPU fall on my left foot and calf shortly after the right ankle sprain and had to juggle still being in a boot with the left leg injury. I didn't blubber then, either.
I think it was the absolute gall of it. There I was, doing absolutely nothing but STANDING and my left ankle said fuck it. And I collapsed.
Now, I'm not a big believer in maintaining my dignity--I'm too clutzy for that. I walk into walls and bookcases almost daily. I'm not graceful. If there's a way for me to trip, I can and will find it.
I have fallen on my ass at the college several times when shoes slipped off my feet for no apparent reason.
I'm an old hand when it comes to screwing up toes, ankles, feet. I had my own wheelchair until we were moving back to the states and we decided to give it back to the hospital. I've got my own cane. Heck, I've got my boot for the right foot! I even had my own wooden crutches until Rick cleaned out the shed of death (all the local mice, rats, and critters made it home) and tossed them. I warned him I'd need those crutches.
And a month later, boom. Needed them.
I got the puppy and me into the house yesterday, boo-hooing and feeling like I was 12. Hell, I don't think I boo-hooed like that when I fainted and fell down a flight of stairs and konked my head on the wall and needed stitches in 8th grade. Or when I wrecked the motorcycle that same year and broke my big left toe and hair line fractured my right cheek bone. Or when I took a tennis racket to my face and shattered my glass-lenses glasses and had to have my eye irrigated (again in 8th grade). 8th grade sucked.
Still crying, I called Rick and wailed at him. He came and took me to the clinic, and I got nice new metal crutches and this black lace up sleeve/wrap/boot for my left foot, similar to this one, but not so fancy:
So, I'm home, with Bobby to help, with my foot elevated and in its stylish "lace ankle support" with my crutches resting beside me, and my ass, quite frankly, hurting from its unexpected connection with the driveway.
At least I'm not blubbering.