Without a moment to lose, I dashed into the street, swooping aside the toddler who had wandered in front of the delivery truck barreling down on us, shoving him aside as I…
I was high up on the wall at the climbing gym when my harness failed…
Nah. Everyone knows I hate heights.
I was sucked into the battle, knives swirling and flashing as magic erupted around us…
Closer. (No, really.)
Fine. I was curled up on my sofa, lost in a battle scene from the draft of a fantasy/adventure book sent to me by a high school friend for feedback when my right foot fell asleep. It was late, and as I finished a chapter I shook out my sleepy foot and slowly rose.
It was only when I stood that I realized that my foot was afire with pins and needles and maybe a porcupine holding a cactus. I felt nothing in my foot but hot prickles – it was beyond “asleep”.
I’ve been here before, and I wasn’t going to be so stupid again. I froze, slowly shifted my weight to my left foot, but as I carefully moved to sit back down, my right foot did a slow, uncontrolled roll to the outside and I collapsed to the floor.
I didn’t remember this much pain the last time I did this and looked in horror as two lines (veins?) welled thickly across the top of my foot. I’d be curious about that later, but at the moment, I simply laid on the floor swearing at my stupid self, random thoughts flashing in my head.
The weather had just topped 89 degrees here in Texas. My kids were out of school in three weeks. I had a Pure Barre class in the morning. And dammit, I think I just broke my foot. My RIGHT foot.
I started to shake as I hobbled to the freezer to grab an ice pack, then scooped up a small toss pillow as I tottered to the bedroom, whimpering under my breath in between short curses. I crawled into bed and shook some more.
The next morning the orthopedic doctor confirmed that I had a fifth metatarsal avulsion fracture, or what is commonly known as a “dancer’s fracture.” A cruel kind of irony for someone who had broken her foot reading. Or standing. You choose, both stories are beyond pathetic, and no one will confuse me for a dancer (unless you’re guessing I fell OFF the stage, and then I might agree.) We won’t even talk about my inability to walk in high heels anymore.
(That heel roll is exactly how I did it…only I was barefoot. On a carpet. Not moving.)
It’s a common sort of break, he consoled, and would only require a boot, and only for walking – I can take it off to shower, sleep, swim and, yes, thank you Baby Jesus, drive.
It’s heavy, bulky, and covered with velcro straps that constantly scratch the inside of my left leg, as I step awkwardly on myself because of course I am MADE OF GRACE. It is black and lined with foam, perfect for summer weather in Texas.
God has a sense of humor.
It’s just shy of 6 years, after all, since I broke my LEFT foot folding laundry.
I don’t injure myself in interesting ways. I broke my pinkie toe stepping over a laundry basket. I was pregnant with my first, couldn’t quite see my feet and yes, hammered that toe home into a doorway.
I sprained both feet in PE class around 7th grade when the spotter for my handstand became distracted and failed in her one task. Somehow my feet missed the mat and smacked the gym floor. Yay, me.
I routinely miss the bottom step of our stairway, trip over my own feet, and roll my ankles. It’s actually a wonder I haven’t had this kind of break more frequently, to be honest.
Unfortunately, this clumsy, injury-prone trait hasn’t ended with me. Nope, it’s well and truly been passed onto my children. My son can’t take more than ten steps without walking into something/stumbling/falling over and has become affectionately known as Mr. Bump. My daughter is no different and has already broken her arm and collarbone on separate occasions. It’s fair to say that we spend a lot of time at Medical City Kids Orthopedics. I can only apologise to my kids, as they have me and only me to blame.
My sister asked me if I need this shirt:
(The answer is yes, sissy, and since I don’t know where this is from, you can get it for me for my birthday. Size XL will be great, since I can’t exercise for the next few weeks and I’m sure I’ll console myself with Oreos.)
Suffice it to say I do have an irrational relationship with gravity, and the closest I’ll ever come to being compared to a dancer is…this.
So if you need me, I’ll be right here. Stretched out, so my foot doesn’t fall asleep, because I don’t want the matching boot from another fracture.
I’ll be watching Netflix, too, as only I can make reading dangerous.