It all started with a walk. A nice evening walk, but in terrible, need-to-replace running shoes. And the next day my left big toe was achy. And I made a mental note to replace the shoes, which needed to be replaced some time, ASAP. But the toe, unfortunately, got worse. And worse. But by then it was a Saturday, and it didn't warrant a visit to the ER, but by Sunday, when I asked DJ Benny Smith to please un-tuck the bed because the weight of the sheet was too much to bear on it that I decided I had somehow broken my big toe due to an unfortunate bunion that I've had for years. Which also led to my niece and nephew, with great hilarity, calling me "Auntie Bunion" for an afternoon, but that's another story.
Monday morning, I woke up determined to go to the doctor to get an x-ray. DJ Smith couldn't take me due to the Leading Lady's school schedule and Mama and the Dipper both had doctor's appointments, so I ended up Ubering to the doctor's office, with a promise from my mother for a pick up post visit. Conversation post x-ray:
Doctor: Well, it appears you have a stress fracture.
Me: I DO? OH MY GOD THAT'S AWESOME.
Doctor: Excuse me?
Me: I mean, I knew something was wrong, but I just thought I broke it somehow! But a stress fracture? That is INSANE!!!
Doctor: I am confused as to why you're excited about this.
Me: THIS IS AS CLOSE TO BEING AN OLYMPIAN AS I'LL EVER GET.
Doctor: I'm.... sorry? Happy for you?
And I was given a lovely orthopedic shoe and sent on my merry way. Mama picked me up and, as she herself was in a boot due to foot surgery, took one look at my shoe and became pea green with envy. "Mine's bigger," she avowed, and took me home to lend me her crutches. Which were too short. And now, since we were pushing toward lunchtime, and as I had not eaten we decided to go to a home health store near a deli for lunch and for crutches. And since my mother is direction-impaired and I was mistaken as to where the deli and the home health store exactly located, got us parked in a parking lot at the deli but the home health store was across the street. So I in my ortho shoe, and Mama in her boot (say it like you're reciting T'was the Night Before Christmas) endeavored to cross the street. And there was a bit of traffic, but not a lot, and it wasn't a moment before a driver in a truck noticed us but probably didn't notice the boot and the shoe and kindly slowed to a stop and waved us across the street, and after I offered up a short prayer (kidding, I just said "Oh JESUS") we both plunged headlong into the street, holding hands for support and starting to laugh hysterically as we hobbled in unison across the street. The driver, now watching in horrified fascination, also watched as we attempted to climb the short bank up to the home health parking lot in a vain attempt, but which led to me shoving mother up, and her hauling me in her wake. Only to get into the store and find out they didn't take my insurance and we'd have to find crutches elsewhere.
Sigh. Back down the bank and across the street; although this time without an audience.
I was so frazzled by everything that at the deli I even forgot to give the attendant my spiel about my hated aversion to mayonnaise and ended up with a mayonnaisey sandwich that I only ate the bottom half of because I am not an animal and refuse to eat that nastiness, and I don't CARE if you call it aioli it is the stuff nightmares are made of.
After that, upon learning about my injury, friend Sharon offered the use of her crutches, which led to a car ride down Gay Street where friend Sharon met us curbside and shoved the crutches into the backseat so YEA. I can now get to and from work. Which, on day one crutching into work trying to tote my lunch also led, in a very Charlie-Brown-esque way, the lunch busting out of the bottom of my bag and spilling all in the parking lot, but fortunately a colleague saw and gathered and carried my belongings into work for me.
Now, in all honesty, I was surprised at how rapidly over the next two days my toe felt. Which then, it was no surprise when I got a phone call from the doctors office telling me they'd had a radiologist review the x-ray, and it was not, in fact, an affirmation that I was a beast in the gym, shredding it up, not a quasi-Olympian, but I did, in fact, have gout.
GOUT?
Didn't we cure this in the middle ages? Don't old men get this?
Sigh. So my injury, all brought on by a pair of crappy tennis shoes, was just GOUT. Stupid gout. And a stupid new nickname.
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| but did lead to this dynamic duo having a hilarious lunch date |
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