A week ago I stepped out of my boy alcove. The alcove is set off of the basement, is smaller than a standard-sized room and came as an after thought when making my screened-in porch. About the size of a jail cell, it’s carpeted, insulated, and is decorated with all of my classic rock albums that I no longer play. It houses my musical instruments, a computer, and a small fridge full of miscellaneous beers, sodas, and ½-full bottles of water. If I could mix in a lifetime supply peanuts, it would be pretty much everything that any man needs to survive.
So I stepped out of the alcove onto the basement floor, about an 18-inch drop. Instead of landing on the bottom of my foot, I landed on my ankle. All of you engineers start doing the math: One man at 265 pounds drops 18 inches at a standard rate onto one ankle. This pretty much equals disaster. I screamed as if someone had shot my testicles with a nail gun. The pain was intense, the worst I’ve ever experienced, and the kind that makes you want to toss chow. I started sweating instantly, and by the time I made it upstairs my shirt was soaked. Such a wonderful way to kick off my five-day vacation.
It took me a week before I made a trip to the doctor, although my wife told me I should go after day three of double-wide, purple foot. The first thing that the nurse said was, “oh, ouch”. Thank you for that expert diagnosis.
Dr. M twisted it, turned it and then had it x-rayed. The funny thing was, it really didn’t hurt that much when walking or during the aforementioned twisting and turning.
I didn’t see anything on the x-ray, but I knew something was amiss when Dr. M said to himself, “hmmm, I think I missed that,” while he stood there staring at the bones. He came over, pinpointed a particular location on my ankle, and as all doctors do so well, pushed while asking if it hurt. “Yeouwouchess”, I said. The sweat glands kicked into overtime instantly.
And then the words came, the words I have avoided throughout years of football, mountain biking, hiking, climbing, boating and all the other things that adrenalin junkies do to keep from being bored. “Yep, you fractured it,” he said.
The worst part is that I get no broken bone trophy. It’s not really bad enough to cast because the bone isn’t out of place, but it’s bad enough to use crutches for a month. I have to keep it wrapped in an Ace, keep it elevated, and ice it. I also have to do all the rehab, but I get no cast. From the first time I saw a friend with a cast during my childhood years, I wanted a broken bone because I wanted a cast that everyone could sign. I though it was so cool. But alas, I have strong bones. I guess it’s from all the milk. So, I get no cast but I get all the crappy stuff like ice, rehab, and crutches.
The photo is my foot 10 days after the injury. It’s still looks icky.
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