My Left Foot

Right now, my left foot is elevated above my heart to prevent swelling. It is encased in a tight ace bandage, with a hard black boot-like splint for support. My crutches are propped jauntily against Joel’s crib. My blood carries Percocet on a wild ride around my body, pausing at my foot and soaking up the pain.

Yesterday, while in a hurry, I twisted my ankle where the driveway meets the grass. It hurt a lot, but then strangely faded away enough for me to completely forget about it as I drove kids to school, bought mundane items like light bulbs and dryer sheets, picked up the boys from their schools, and delivered them to the snipping scissors and clippers of Cool Cuts for Kids.

With rudeness usually reserved for Christmas shoppers in a parking lot, the pain came roaring back, parking in my foot. Within minutes, I went from “no pain” to sobbing and wanting to amputate. Somehow I stuttered my way through ordering Happy Meals and drove about 20 miles home. Kindly neighbors helped me and the boys into the house. Lee came home early, and it was decided that x-rays were in order. My foot was puffy, purple, and cocked at an odd angle. Luckily, ImmediaCare (where the laundry basket was dislodged from my eyeball two months ago) has an x-ray machine.

In a moment that hasn’t been seen by the eyes of God or mankind since the day we were united in Holy Matrimony, Lee carried me. Instead of the over the threshold, he carried me to the minivan.

The x-ray machine at ImmediaCare showed no break, which was a relief. But my foot was clearly traumatized. It is severely sprained. I didn’t know sprains could hurt so badly. Here I am, the morning after, and my foot still hurts.

So here I am, with the laptop propped properly on my lap. Life could be much worse. Sure, I spent last night watching horrendously bad sitcoms on ABC (our bedroom TV is not hooked up to the satellite receiver). When I say “bad” sitcoms, I mean did not laugh once in 2 hours . I will spend today thinking about the party Lee and I are supposed to go to tonight. It is a murder-mystery dinner party, and I was assigned the part of the Madam, the operator of a house of ill-repute. My costume includes fishnet stockings. Nothing is more fetching than fishnets stretched over a big black boot-like splint with velcro straps—they show it in Victoria’s Secret all the time. Plus, it is snowing heartily outside, which should make my rookie crutch-walking a harrowing experience.

I suppose it is a reminder that when I think I have everything under control, I don’t.