I Skipped Over the Foot Thing

So...on New Year's Eve I broke my foot. Somehow I haven't managed to tell this story until now, maybe because I was too busy being in the midst of the drama to write about it. It goes something like this:

I fell down a hill, don't ask me to explain how, and hit my foot on the sidewalk. (My son says this story will be better if I claim to have been attacked by ninja midgets wearing purple suits, but I think that happens often enough in life so that I don't need to be making up stories about it.) This was at work, outside the building I work in, btw. I laid there on the sidewalk, with the pain in my foot steadily increasing, and wondering if it was possible to die of foot pain. While there I managed to observe no less than three people see me laying there, say nothing and walk off. Nice, right? Finally these guys asked if I needed some help, to which I hesiatated before replying yes. Was it because of shock, or because I really for a moment thought I didn't need help. I'm not sure any more, because I was actually contemplating being able to walk on this incredibly, INCREDIBLY painful foot as I lay there, get this, if I waited a few more minutes (laying on the sidewalk, in the cold). When they got to me, they asked if they should call an ambulance.

I told the nice gentlemen that I didn't need an ambulance, I only hurt my foot. I also told them that if they could help me get back on my feet, I thought I could make it back to my office on my own. They exchanged some very skeptical looks, and rightly so. Then they helped me all the way back to my office, acquiring an ice pack and an abandoned office chair to help move me along the way. I wish I had gotten their names, they deserve good samaritan awards or something.

After I got back to the office, it occurred to me that I had NO IDEA how I was going to get home or to the emergency room or wherever else I thought I should be going. Also, my co-worker left after I assured her that I could handle my rapidly swelling foot on my one. Stupid me. So I called boyfriend.

Of course he rescued me, although he was really, really annoyed that he had to. I did have to make my own way out of the building, using a surplus chair that I then abandoned on another floor. (Screw that chair.) Here's where it gets good:

I went to the emergency room. After letting me sit in the waiting room for an hour, at least, in extreme pain, they gave me some halfway decent drugs and took an x-ray. During which they want me to bear weight on the incredibly painful foot. Riiiight. Diagnosis - sprain, no broken bones. Go home and walk on it as soon as possible and it will get better. They gave me an ace bandage and some crutches and sent me on my way. I'm a gospel sort of girl so I tried to walk on it almost immediately. Meanwhile, it's swelling even more and getting really purple. Can you guess where I'm going with this?

I couldn't walk on it the next day which was New Year's Day, which sucked. On January 2nd, I called in sick to work and called to make a follow up with my regular doc, since it still just didn't look right. When I call in, the operator says to me "I see you have a couple of broken bones in your foot." Huh? So ok, then, I have two broken bones. I go in to the doctor, they want to take another x-ray, more requests for weight-bearing (idiots, you want me to put pressure in the broken bones?) Then they give me this incredibly heavy cam walker, and tell me to make an appointment for a CT scan. Oh and I have three broken bones, one of which is a bone that almost never gets broken outside of professional sports.

So I go in for the CT scan, which is really far away from the entrance to the hospital, by the way. They are really rude, there. Then they show me the scan, with the four broken bones. (Remember the sprain?). So I have to go to the orthopedist. Before I even get THERE, the doctor reads my scan and x-rays and decides that because of the delicate nature of the break, all five broken bones are along the midjoint of my foot and my whole foot could just fall apart at any minute, I need to to see a specialist. I'm kind of scared to do that, actually, because every time someone new looks at my foot, more bones are broken. It's...alarming, to say the least.

The specialist is really great. The number of bones don't go up, and they put me in an aircast, which is lighter than the cam walker and actually gives me the support I need. The rest of the story is boring...I might need surgery, or maybe not, I go in for the surgery, they put me under, but I don't need the surgery, I get a cast, I can't go back to work for six weeks and when I do go back I'm persona non grata, and then they 'don't need me anymore.'

I have a new job that I like better, but my foot is still pretty damaged, and it's never going to be the same. Which totally sucks. On the other hand, I got a six-week vacation, even if I didn't get to go anywhere. Unfortunately I can't remember it because of all the painkillers.

Grand total of injury statistics: Five broken bones and one job.