I am sitting at the doctors with one foot uncovered and my sock and shoe lying next to me. I am staring at my toes and realizing that maybe I should have cut my toenails before I decided to come in. A week and a half has passed since my foot started aching. It swelled up midweek and became barely walkable for a couple of days. I am not a huge fan of doctors, but I realize that maybe something is going on with my foot that I should check out. They examine it, poke at it, and take x-rays.
The doctor walks in with the x-ray results.
“Oh,” he says casually, “There’s the problem. Your foot is broken.”
He hands me the x-rays and begins to show me the various visible bones on the screen. I have never broken anything before and I certainly have never examined an x-ray before. As he points at various key areas on the slides, I nod with the conviction of an experienced radiologist. I want my nodding head to demonstrate that I clearly know exactly what the doctor is talking about and could have easily have read the x-rays without him present.
I lie on my stomach as they fit me with a temporary cast. It feels kind of warm as the cast begins to mold around my leg and harden. The set me up with a pair of crutches and give me instructions. It is important that I make an appointment with an orthopedist as soon as possible to receive a permanent cast. I feel a little bummed out, but also slightly curious about the whole procedure. My first broken bone, my first cast, and my first crutches.
We head to Paul’s parents house and I hobble up the long gravel driveway.
“I BROKE MY FOOT!” I yell proudly to Paul’s dad as I walk through the door. I give a demonstration of the crutch walking techniques that I learned at the hospital.
“That isn’t the correct way to walk in crutches.” says Paul gauging my every footstep. I racked my brain, but I couldn’t ever recall Paul breaking either of his feet or ever needing crutches. I wasn’t aware that he was an expert in art of crutch walking.
He takes the crutches and makes a graceful walk across the living room tile. He walks back towards us and then he repeats the walk again. He is feeling quite proud of himself. He is like the runway model for crutches. Hospitals everywhere should hire his assistance in the demonstration of the fine gait of the crutch-way walk. I want to knock the crutches from underneath him, but I have too many calls to make.
I first start calling work. Broken foot means no work for some time. This part really frustrates me because I haven’t been able to work much this past month. I was really looking forward to getting back to making some coffee and having fun. I make numerous calls and send various texts attempting to cover all of my shifts for a week. It is a pain to do last minute, but thankfully after two hours I have it covered.
Next, I try to set up an appointment to see an orthopedist. The first one I call isn’t available for five days. That’s too long to wait, so I make several more calls and finally find one who is available in three days. With the appointment set, I sit and try to envision what my next month will look like.
I had lots of plans to get back into the swing of things after a great summer of laziness. I was ready for a strict workout regime. I had a step-by-step work plan to prepare of us for some audits in October. My birthday resolutions of arduous efforts were going to come true. Unfortunately, most of them involved moving my feet.
I tried to now envision plans with me and my non-moving foot. The doctor said to keep my foot elevated, so I planned lots of activities sitting on my bum. I guess I could catch up on some television. I had some videos games I had yet to beat. Worst came to worst, I could even catch up on some reading. I was sitting there imaging this new month of restful activities when the phone rang. It was the doctor and he sounded slightly flustered. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, your foot really isn’t broken. It’s just sprained. You can cut your cast off now.”
I stare down at my cast. So much for my imagined month of relaxation.
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