The distance from my bedroom door to my bathroom door is approximately eight feet.
This eight feet appears innocent. It is not.
I woke up in the middle of Saturday night and walked that eight feet to the bathroom, half asleep. And about four feet into my journey, I ran into this:
That’s a ladder. A very sturdy, fiberglass and metal ladder. It’s great for reaching high things and I feel very secure getting into my attic with it. However, I do not recommend slamming your foot into it in the middle of the night.
Ouch. That hurt. That really hurt. That really, *really* hurt. I went back to bed, pain in my foot, thinking I’d have a nasty bruise from an unpleasant toe-stubbing.
The next morning, I stepped out of bed with my right foot, then my left. Soon as the second foot hit the floor, I fell back in bed. Extreme pain. Swelling. Ugly colors beginning to appear.
I sat with ice on it, 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off, and watched Fred Astaire in The Band Wagon. I always forget how pretty Nanette Fabray is and I want about 75% of her wardrobe from this movie. I think I’d look very nice in fluffy skirts.
When the dust settled somewhere late in the day, it became obvious that while the whole foot is bruised and sore, it’s my fourth toe from the big one that’s suffered the most damage. See? Not so pretty. (P.S. My foot is not fat and I do not have chubby toes. That’s all swelling. And while my camera didn’t quite catch it, there’s a lovely lilac shade covering most of the top portion of my foot...)
On Monday morning, I debated back and forth on whether to call the doctor. I’ve stubbed my toe before, a lot, and I didn’t want to feel stupid going to the doctor for him to say, duh (he wouldn’t really do that; he’s really very nice).
I waited until after my dentist appointment at noon (to replace temporary fillings with permanent ones) and just from hopping around from half a day, I knew I’d have to call. I did and went to see him at 6:15 on Monday night. He took a quick look and sent me for X-rays, letting me know he’d call with the results the next morning.
On Tuesday morning, wearing my very non-Nanette house slippers as office shoe ware, I listened to his message informing me I had fractured my toe. While he asserted it would most likely just take time to heal, he wanted me to see a foot specialist to be sure.
I called to make the appointment with the foot guy, and the schedule lady gave me an appointment one week away. I questioned this, and I am very proud of myself for sticking up and telling her I needed to see him sooner. She transferred me to his physician’s assistant and I left a rattling voice mail. She called me back 10 minutes later to tell me I could see him the next day at 8am.
Wednesday morning and I arrived at the foot guy still wearing my non-Nanette house slippers (which, by the way, are not so good for walking in Chicago alleys). I spent 10 minutes filling out forms. I spent 10 minutes waiting for him. He spent about five minutes with me. He told me my fracture ran vertically from just below the joint down the length of my toe. He said it would hurt for about two weeks. He said it would take about eight weeks to heal completely, and would be swollen for most of that time. He gave me a fabulous sandal to wear so I could stop wearing my non-Nanette slippers.
I’d like to say something witty and wise here to wrap this all up, but really, all I can say is: this sucks.
As always, more to come…