What’s going on? Have I been cursed?
Thursday was moving day. Everything went so smoothly: the movers showed up, they worked very quickly, and delivered everything in perfect condition. (Moving around in the Jackson area? Give Affordable Movers a call.)
That done, I carried Chelsea’s bed upstairs, removed the box of toys stowed inside, and came back downstairs with ’em.
Well, almost.
Two steps shy of the first floor landing, I missed a step and took a tumble. The basket launched across the room. The toys went flying. And me? I somehow managed to fold my foot backwards and hammer all my weight down on the top of it. The loud snap and concurrent wave of nausea told me everything I needed to know: I’d broken something.
The doctors at the MEA told me that, in 20 years of emergency room work, they’d never seen a break quite like it. (At least I’m unique.) You normally think of your heel bone as something at the back of your foot; in fact, it is shaped a bit like an ice pick, with the fat handle in back and the sharp point buried somewhere in the middle of your food. When I folded my foot backward and came down on the top with all my weight (I have a lot of weight, you know), I snapped the tip off that bone.
So: here I sit, on crutches, in an immobilization boot, unable to unpack, in a house that requires me to crawl up the stairs every time I go to my bedroom. I’ve hired a maid just to open boxes and stow things according to my directions.
Clyde’s patient, but I feel completely stupid, clumsy, and worthless. At a time when I should be working all day to hang pictures and arrange rooms, I’m stuck in my seat … and will be, according to the doctor, for the next four weeks, minimum. Should it not heal properly — and it might not, as this sort of clean break sometimes fails to reattach itself — I’ll have the pleasure of a surgical procedure, followed by six more weeks of recuperation.
I feel dislocated, upended, and downright low. Three word summary: Mark ain’t happy.
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