[Author’s Note #1: The title of this post will make more sense when I publish Part II.]
[Author’s Note #2: Once again, I’ll render my translation of Bo’s speech in curly brackets.]
Check out this picture. If you had to guess, what would you imagine is the storyline surrounding this scene?
You might think it’s something like this: Borealis, out of the goodness and love in his little boy heart, sought out a Swiffer with which to responsibly clean up his own messes, and indeed, the messes of everyone else, besides.
Alas, dear reader. This was not the case. Here’s what actually happened: in the hours leading up to my orthopedic appointment on September 1st, I found myself needing a makeshift crutch with which to hobble around my house. It was either that, or hop.
What came to hand was my Swiffer. If I moved slowly and gripped tightly, the cleaning implement was sufficiently supportive for my needs.
And then, Bo decided that he wanted a turn. He dashed up behind me, grabbed the Swiffer, and ran away with it. After lurching awkwardly for the counter, I rebalanced just in time to get this photo, which shows my son banging his new toy repeatedly against the ground in an offensive facsimile of my erstwhile crutching motion.
So, in summary, this is a picture of my son taunting a temporarily-disabled person with a stolen crutch.
But, let’s back up to the previous night.
The evening of August 31st begged to be enjoyed. A cold snap brought the temperatures down into the seventies, and by 6:30pm, the sun had dipped below a line of clouds crowning the foothills.
After a dinner of halibut (from the clearance section — cuz we fancy, but not that fancy), Taylor herded our family outside to play in the tantalizingly autumnal weather. We even included our dog Mache (sounds like “McKee”), but mostly because we feel guilty for constantly ignoring her.
[Note: For further discussion of how our canine child has suffered since being replaced by a human child, you can read my now-outdated story When Fur Babies Get Supplanted.]
We recently hired an arborist to deadwood the aging elm that dominates the northeastern corner of our backyard, so now the kids’ two swings hang from lion-tailed branches that each sport a dozen leaves. (Kidding. Mostly.)
At ten months old, Australis had just started to play games — although I use that term pretty loosely. It’s not like she can follow rules yet. (Currently, her favorite “game” is to offer Taylor a bite of her food, then jerk her hand away at the last second. Her resulting giggles are virulently contagious.)
Taylor’s most recent game for swing-time was to pretend-eat Aza’s toes each time she swung forward. I also used to love this activity — and the laughter it produced — until Australis kicked me in the mouth and split my lip. So, now that game is solely my husband’s purview.
While those two played pendular-baby-toe-buffet, I pushed Borealis on the big boy swing. He’s old enough to know that a fall would hurt (a lot), but I still worry that he’ll forget to hold on. So, when I “push” him, I actually just sprint back and forth next to the swing while holding my son upright. (High-intensity interval training: one of the many side benefits of helicopter parenting.)
This night, Bo requested that I sing the alphabet while pushing him. “A-B-C-D!”
[Note: For some reason, he never says “alphabet”. He also doesn’t say “ABCs”. It’s only ever “A-B-C-D”.]
Running the swing backwards, I yelled, “A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-J-K-L-M-N-O-P—” then we turned around, and I concluded, “Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y…” Finally, Bo and I bellowed, “Z!” in unison.
“Ah-gun!” {“Again!”}
I repeated the circuit once, then twice. I was embarrassingly winded.
“Alright buddy, you gotta give me a second,” I panted. I pulled Bo off the swing, then stood up to catch my breath.
Just then, Mache pranced over in an unmistakably playful manner. I felt a twinge in my gut that might have been guilt. There was a time — before Borealis was born — when Mache and I hung out all the time. We’d cuddle on the couch, go for car rides, hike together, etc.
And then I had a human baby, and I no longer felt the same maternal affection for my dog baby. (Tellingly, Numbers 22:29b is bookmarked in my Bible app under the label Things I Say To My Dog.)
Nowadays, my interactions with Mache are typically relegated to: 1) yelling at her when she barks, 2) asking her to refrain from biting Bo while simultaneously scolding Bo for stomping on the her tail, and 3) bathing her (reference BoB Part I, A Stinky Situation, or Colorado Mom).
So, even though I typically do nothing to change the situation, I do feel bad for neglecting Mache (and especially for birthing a son who loves to antagonize her). This night, however, I chose to engage in my pup’s play.
I faux-lunged at Mache, which sent her dashing away. She circled the yard and came back for another pass, a big puppy grin on her still-slightly-skunky face. This time, I took two quick steps toward her, and once again she sprinted off.
When Mache returned, I tried for a football-esque side-shuffle — tried and failed.
As I shuffled, my left foot came down on one of the many clumps of dead grass in our yard. My foot rolled onto its outer edge, and my ankle rolled with it — but not before I heard a loud snap! and collapsed to the ground.
My first thought was that I had badly cracked a toe knuckle halfway up the outside of my left foot. (Are there such things as toe knuckles?) My second thought was, You know, that’s the same sound I heard when I broke that foot in high school. [Note: Reference the entry for April 24, 2013 in Blast from the Past.]
But my foot didn’t feel broken this time. It just felt numb, mostly. Taylor, to his credit, immediately rushed over, leaving Australis to passively sway in her swing.
“What happened?”
I pulled off my shoe and inspected the foot beneath. No swelling yet, but it wouldn’t be long. “I’m not sure. I twisted my ankle and heard a pop.”
At that moment, Mache trotted over to inspect her handiwork. (Pawiwork?) She delicately nuzzled my shoulder, but I was back to hating her. “Get away me, you foul fiend!”
Mache’s head and tail drooped, and she dejectedly slunk away.
Taylor, remarkably, discerned that I hadn’t been speaking to him — this time. He gently probed my foot, then asked, “Do you think you can get inside? You need to elevate it.”
“I think so. Do you have the kids?”
Taylor glanced back at our children, who each regarded me with a mildly concerned expression. “Yeah, for sure. We’ll be inside soon.”
All things considered, I was remarkably calm. In fact, I remember thinking, Wow, I’m such a boss. I’m not even screaming.
I limped back inside, hopped around to procure socks and an ice pack, and finally laid backwards on the couch — my head on the ottoman, and my feet elevated on the cushions.
I glanced at the clock. It was almost 7pm, but Ernie and Nova usually run a few minutes late to our Monday evening get-togethers. [Note: You may remember this couple from Bo’s First Egg Hunt and just Ernie from Process Goes to Coors Lab.]
I sighed and shot a text to Ernie. Heads up, I think I just broke my foot, so you’ll find me being an invalid on the couch. We don’t know if we’ll have to go to Urgent Care, but if we do, it would be super helpful to have childcare!!
After several minutes, I inspected my foot, which now sported a flushed line of swelling perpendicular to its edge.
And *that* was when I started freaking out.
By the time Taylor and the kids returned inside, tears were streaming down my face, and ragged breaths shook my body.
My husband rushed to my side and gently lifted the ice pack away from my foot. “It hurts that bad?”
“No, it’s just — I need water — get me water! I’m so thirsty!” <pause> “Why haven’t you gotten me water yet!? HELP ME!”
Taylor gently replaced the ice pack. “I’m trying to see if we need to take you to Urgent Care tonight, but I think it’s not serious enough that we have to get you seen right away. I will get you water now.”
“But why aren’t you listening to me!?” I shrieked.
Taylor raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on with you? It is more than just the foot?”
I gulped down air, then tried to articulate my issue. “It’s, like, the psychological aspect of it. I can’t handle knowing that something in my body is broken — like, a bone, or joint, or connective tissue, or whatever.”
Taylor grimaced. “I know babe. I think we’ll probably need to make an appointment at Panorama as soon as we can.”
I groaned. Nationally-renowned Panorama Orthopedics & Spine Center is literally five minutes away from our house, but I dreaded the prospect of going. “Did you text Hansel and Gretel’s dad? Is that what he said?”
Taylor: <grunts in confirmation>
Our nextdoor neighbor — who cameos at the very end of Z is for Zoo — is an orthopedic nurse at Panorama. Apparently, even a cursory description of my injury was adequately condemning, which did not bode well.
“I’ll try to make an appointment online,” Taylor said. “But first, I’ll get you that water — oh, and some ibuprofen.” And that he did.
Bo, who had been repeatedly — but gently! — pushing his sister to the ground, now abandoned his activity to determine why Mommy was lying backwards on the couch. (Actually, maybe he was wondering why I was lying down at all. Get to work, Mommy!) Aza, suddenly free of fraternal oppression, got up and quickly staggered away.
Bo noticed my ice pack, pointed, and stated, “Mah-ee hah boo-boo ah foot.” {“Mommy has boo-boo on foot.”}
I nodded tearfully. “Yes, Bo, Mommy has a boo-boo on her foot.”
[Note: It always feels a bit strange to use third-person possessive pronouns with regard to myself, but it feels even stranger to switch perspective halfway through a sentence (i.e. “Mommy has a boo-boo on my foot.”)]
“Mah-ee hah yoh-yoh boo-boo?” {“Mommy have little boo-boo?”}
“No, baby, I think it’s actually a big boo-boo.”
Bo nodded solemnly. “Mah-ee hah bih boo-boo.” {“Mommy has big boo-boo.”}
Then he wandered away, presumably to accost his sister once more.
A few minutes later, Ernie and Nova pushed through the throng of human and canine kids into our house. I actually don’t remember much of their visit — I was too busy crying and feeling sorry for myself. However, I do remember that Nova did a beautiful job of helping Taylor with my children, which was lovely because I physically could not care for them.
At one point, I rose from the couch and hobbled to the bathroom. Though I was upright for only a few minutes, my foot swelled alarmingly and started to throb. Afterward, I wept even more piteously.
Ernie, who is not yet sold on very young children, sat with me on the couch while our spouses watched the kids. It was very reminiscent of our days back at Mines: me, crying, and Ernie, alternately heckling me or attempting to cheer me up.
“You should just get a peg leg,” he suggested at one point. “You know, the ones where you bend your leg and it straps around your knee? I think that would make for a great blog post.” He dramatically swept his hand through the air as he announced, “You could call it, Pirate Mom.”
I laughed despite myself. “Yes, well, I’m glad you think that all the bad things that happen to me should go on my blog.”
[Note: Generally speaking, all the bad things that happen to me *do* go on my blog. And, although I did not end up getting a knee crutch like this one, I hope that this is still a great blog post. Or at least a decent one.]
Shortly after Ernie and Nova left, it was time to put the kids to bed. They’ve just started sleeping in the same room, so there’s now a timing element to our routine. I nursed Australis out on the couch while Taylor read Bo at least a dozen bedtime stories. (Just kidding. It was probably only two or three.) After tucking Bo into his “big-boy bed”, Taylor retrieved Aza, placed her in her crib, and admonished Bo, “Sing to your sister, ok?”
From the living room, I could hear Bo singing over Australis’s wails. “Kah kah boom boom, wih be nuf woom?” {“Chicka chicka boom boom, will there be enough room?”}
[Note: If your heart did not burst at the perfect sweetness of Borealis singing his sister to sleep, then I advise you to reread the preceding paragraph until it does.]
That night, I slept with my foot elevated on two couch cushions. Nevertheless, the morning did not bring with it an improvement in my condition. In fact, the swelling had increased to a point where I could no longer curl my toes. Luckily, Taylor had already secured me an afternoon appointment at Panorama — but bringing the kids was out of the question.
“I think I can do all my meetings remotely,” Taylor announced after analyzing his calendar. “So I’ll be able to watch them, probably.”
Only, as everyone learned during April 2020, it’s actually 100% impossible to work from home and also watch your kids. Thankfully, Taylor didn’t have to try. My mother, once she learned of my plight, dropped what she was doing and drove up to take care of my children — because she’s just that awesome.
As we waited for my mother to arrive, however, I couldn’t help but notice that things around the house had rapidly deteriorated during my invalidity. Or, maybe my house had already been a mess, and I was only just now noticing the chaos. Either way, I felt the intense need to move around.
As I hopped into the kitchen, I found myself praying, Thank You, Lord, that my body is almost always completely functional, and it’s only in rare cases that I’m not able to do the things that I need to do as a mom. It was a piercing reminder that I ought to be more consistently thankful for my health.
In the kitchen, I cycled through several makeshift crutch options before settling on my Swiffer. Thus empowered, I was able to independently do a few chores (move over the laundry, vacuum by the back door, use the bathroom, etc.) before Bo decided to steal my Swiffer — resulting in the picture at the start of this post.
Once my mother arrived, I returned to laying backwards on the couch. Per Panorama’s request, I answered every conceivable health question on their online prescreening, although I was pretty sure that the proactivity wouldn’t actually expedite my appointment. I used the remainder of my otherwise-unproductive couch time to work on a baby blanket that, at the time of this writing, I have just completed.
Soon enough, it was time for Taylor to drive me to Panorama — thirty minutes before my appointment, even though I had already done the pre-screening. Plus, much to my chagrin, the appointment info had strongly urged that I attend alone, if I could manage.
To that end, Taylor pulled up to Panorama, put the car in idle, and ducked inside to retrieve a wheelchair — a massive wheelchair. I don’t know who that chair was designed for, but it wasn’t me — unless it was designed for two of me. Furthermore, Taylor had apparently forgotten the nature of my injury, because his chosen wheelchair’s footrest was rather inconveniently located on the right.
As I attempted to fit both feet on the footrest — which was, ironically, too small for that purpose — I glared up at Taylor and demanded, “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I gave the wheels an experimental shove and spun awkwardly toward an old lady with a walker. She eyed me reproachfully and shuffled a few steps away.
Taylor smothered his laughter and suggested, “Maybe pull with your feet?”
“One of them might be broken!”
“Do you need me to push you in?”
I sighed. “No, I’ll make it work.”
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “Ok, Tim Gunn. Anyway, I’ll be at the coffee shop, so text me when you need to be picked up!”
And with that, I was on my own. Well, except for the elderly woman, who continued to judge me as I tried to arm-wrestle my way through the automatic double doors. However, my triceps are wimpy at the best of times, and the extra-wide wheelchair only exacerbated the challenge. After moving all of three inches, I gave up and attempted to push myself backwards using my good foot.
Problematically, the wheelchair was even more challenging to steer backward. My best effort sent me crashing loudly into the right door, which had helpfully opened to create an egress route for my tattered dignity. As I scooted forward for another attempt, I saw the elderly woman shoot me one last glare before settling into the passenger seat of an Oldsmobile that had pulled up in time to behold my vehicular assault on the door. I also saw Taylor, who had climbed back out of his car and was once again smothering laughter.
“How’s about I just get you inside the building,” he murmured as he did just that. He left me in front of the front door attendant, who leveled an infrared thermometer at me as though she just *knew* I was a ‘rona carrier. [Note: My overall health of the past month suggests that I was not.] At least I had remembered a mask.
“Ok, you’re good to go check-in,” she announced in an almost-disappointed way.
Then, I had to move myself. Since I had already eliminated two modes of transportation (i.e. pulling with arms and pushing with foot), I tried the only other option I could devise: pulling myself forward with my undamaged right foot.
I had to slide way to the left side of the seat in order to clear the useless footrest. (There was undoubtedly a way to stow the feature, but I wasn’t about to sit there and tinker with it in front of Mrs. Make My Day.) It was slow going, since I could only pull the wheelchair forward about six inches at a time — but eventually, I made it to the check-in counter.
The receptionist glanced up from her computer and said, “Just a moment,” which felt like a bit of a snub since she had seen me coming for the last two minutes. After several dozen seconds, she looked up again and gave me a sunny smile. “Who are you here to see?”
The question caught me completely flat-footed. (Pardon the genuinely unintentional pun.) My cheeks heated as I guessed, “Um… the foot guy whose name starts with a P?”
The receptionist wore an expression that managed to convey both patience and exasperation. “Here, I can look up your appointment. Spell your last name for me?”
I did, while at the same time examining my phone for information that was simply not there. (Taylor, not I, had gotten the confirmation email.)
After a few seconds, the receptionist suggested, “Dr. Podiatrist?”
“Yes, that sounds right,” I said lamely.
[Note: If you haven’t discerned this writing quirk by now… I always change the names of anyone outside of my immediate family. My foot doctor’s name was not, in fact, ”Mr. Foot Doctor”.]
The receptionist nodded briskly. “You can take a seat, and someone will be out to retrieve you shortly.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and my audience was over.
As I inched away from the desk, I passed a hastily-scrawled whiteboard message that read: Dr. Podiatrist — current delay of 20 minutes.
Suddenly, I had a feeling that someone would *not* be out to retrieve me shortly.
Alas, I was right.
My wait was exactly an hour — and I would know, since I checked the time every minute or two. Thankfully, my phone had plenty of battery, so I spent most of the time reading Matthew Henry’s commentary for Numbers 16.
At one point, I considered practicing with the wheelchair, but a quick glance revealed dozens of waiting patients who wouldn’t hesitate to watch me make a fool of myself. So, I just sat and read.
The thermometer attendant was clearly bored by her job — or, rather, by the long periods of idleness between her brief spurts of frantic activity. During those periods of idleness, she entertained herself — and drove me half-mad — by repeatedly kicking the floor in a fair impression of Chinese water torture.
Finally, a half hour past my appointment time, a grandmotherly woman in scrubs announced, “Holly?”
I wanted to jump out of my chair with relief. Instead, I pulled myself forward with agonizing slowness — until the woman hurried to the back of the wheelchair and started pushing.
“Thank you!” I whimpered.
“Oh, don’t you worry about it,” the woman fussed. In voice and attitude, she was a dead ringer for the matronly teapot from Beauty and the Beast. “These things are so unwieldy, and you have such a big one, too!”
“My husband picked it out,” I blame-shifted.
Mrs. Potts confidently wheeled me into an appointment room, faced me toward the door, and assured me, “Someone will be right with you.”
A few minutes later, her doppelgänger arrived. I was actually taken aback because the second woman was so similar to the first.
“Hi there sweetheart,” Mrs. Potts II said. “I’m going to bring you back to get some X-rays. No — don’t worry about your wheelchair. Just leave it to me.”
With the lady’s calm, sweet demeanor, I found myself almost enjoying the X-rays — aside from the weight-bearing one. “Wait, I’m here because I can’t put weight on it!” I complained.
Mrs. Potts II clucked sympathetically. “I know, dear. You don’t have to put much weight on it — just a little.”
I grumbled, but complied. Soon enough, Mrs. Potts II was wheeling me back into my room and patting my shoulder goodbye. “Alright honey, you feel better soon.”
And with that, I was alone in my appointment room once more — but not for long. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a slim woman slipped through. She sported shimmery black joggers, a fitted Patagonia zip-up, and a sleek high ponytail.
“Dr. Podiatrist?” I asked hesitantly.
The woman shook her head, then crouched over the computer and explained, “I’m Dr. Podiatrist’s assistant. I’m going to pull up the X-rays so they’re ready for him.” After a few clicks on the computer, she left without another word.
As the door shut behind her, I rolled forward to check out the X-ray, subtly bashing my wheelchair against the desk in the process. When I had finally managed to effectively position myself, this was what I saw:
Here’s the problem: I have only the most cursory knowledge of metatarsal anatomy. I had previously determined that, if there was a joint issue, it was between the cuboid bone and my fifth metatarsal (i.e. the transition point between my toe-ish bones and ankle-ish bones on the outside of my foot). However, I couldn’t identify anything that was obviously amiss in the scan. I wheeled my chair backwards and returned to my silent wait.
Twenty minutes later, a knock at my door heralded the arrival of a middle-aged man of average build and sandy grey hair. I could tell he was smiling under his mask. This, surely, was Dr. Podiatrist.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Podiatrist,” he confirmed. “How are you doing today?”
I gestured at my shoeless, swollen left foot. “If I were doing well, I wouldn’t be here,” I said. After a pause, I added, “It’s unfortunate that most of the people you see here are having pretty bad days.”
Dr. Podiatrist sighed. “Yes, well, it’s one of the hazards of the job. And speaking of hazards… what happened to this foot?”
I briefly relayed the story of how playing with Mache had resulted in my becoming one of his patients, concluding, “And the moral of this story is that I should never play with my dog.”
“Oh, well you know that’s not true,” Dr. Podiatrist disagreed. I had the odd feeling that he was personally disappointed with my self-centered judgment.
I was instantly cowed. “Um, no, yeah, you’re right.”
Dr. Podiatrist leaned back in his chair, which struck me as odd, because the action put him even further away from the foot in question. He seemed to be settling in for a bit of a conversation, and I had a sudden insight into the reason for his “current delay” white board announcements.
“Most of the patients who come in here have stories like that — a bit boring. They stepped off a curb wrong, or they tripped, or they rolled their ankle. But sometimes, we get really exciting stories.”
Dr. Podiatrist fixed me with a clear, intelligent gaze. He was obviously one of those people who doesn’t break eye contact during conversation. The problem was, I am *also* one of those people who doesn’t break eye contact — so we just stared each other down with no breaks. I was unnerved, but Dr. Podiatrist didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he rolled right into those exciting stories.
“Like once, we had someone in who was really interested in old graves. He was checking out a burial ground, and he stepped on a grave, but it had rotted — so his foot went straight through, right into the coffin! That messed up his ankle pretty bad.”
“Wow,” I said lamely.
“And another time, there was someone who was hiking, and accidentally hiked onto someone’s farm land, and —boom!— right there was a bull, and it charged him. It was even chained up, but the chain was too long. So that hurt him pretty bad, too.”
I could think of nothing to say to that. After a pause, I muttered, “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t have an exciting story to share.”
Dr. Podiatrist waved away my apology. “No, it’s better that you weren’t out in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, let’s check out that foot of yours.”
Finally, the surgeon leaned forward to assess my foot. He twisted it around and pressed on various points, seeming to intuitively know the pain he manipulated. “That hurts, right? But this doesn’t hurt quite as much, correct? And when I move my hand down the side of your foot, where does it start to hurt? Right here?”
At the end of this oracular evaluation, he sat back and said, “Well, I have some bad news… it’s broken. But I knew that immediately, because the X-ray was up on the screen.”
“Seriously?” I spluttered. “But I looked, and I couldn’t identify a break. Granted, it’s not like I know that much about bones.”
Dr. Podiatrist waved me over. “See this joint?” he asked, indicating the junction of my metatarsals and tarsals.
I nodded. On the X-ray, the joint marked a continuous line below my second through fifth metatarsals.
“Yeah, the joint is not supposed to continue into your fifth metatarsal. This little piece isn’t a small tarsal bone; it’s the tuberosity of your fifth metatarsal.”
“Oh.”
The break was much more obvious — and much more painful-looking — in the next two X-rays, but Dr. Podiatrist was nevertheless optimistic.
Somewhat incongruously, Dr. Podiatrist said, “This is good.”
My surprise must have been evident on my face, because he immediately elaborated.
“It’s actually only a partial fracture, and there’s no displacement, so it’s going to heal in just a few weeks. A sprain would actually have been much worse. We’ll get you in a boot today, and that should allow you to walk out of here. It’ll also provide you with some pain relief, which I’m sure you’re looking forward to.”
I nodded. For a second, I considered protesting, Wait! Don’t make me buy a boot from you! Let me try to find one on craigslist first! — but then I realized that, while I am that stingy, I am not that brave. So, I said nothing.
“You know,” he continued, “this is an incredibly common injury. I’ve seen three of these today, in various states of healing. Yours is the freshest.”
“Well, at least I’m unique in some way,” I quipped.
Dr. Podiatrist chuckled as he rose and opened the door. “It was nice to meet you, and I wish you well in your healing. My assistant will be in shortly to help you schedule a follow-up appointment.”
Once again, I considered arguing, Wait, I don’t plan on coming back! Do you know how hard it is to get childcare?— but Dr. Podiatrist was already slipping out the door, so all I had time to say was, “Thanks! Have a good day!”
A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the Patagonia-clad assistant came in to schedule a follow-up appointment I would later cancel. I also worked up the nerve to ask for digital copies of my X-rays — you know, so that I could include them in this post.
So, an hour after my scheduled appointment time, all that remained was for me to be fitted for an orthopedic boot. I guessed that the task would take all of five minutes, so I was surprised when I was left alone for a full half hour.
Wait — that’s not entirely true. After twenty-five minutes, I was ready to hop my way into the hall to remind someone of my presence. Just as I was rising from my wheelchair, though, Miss Patagonia stuck her head in and informed me, “Someone will be along in just a few minutes to get you a boot. They’re running a little behind.”
I promptly sat back down.
Five minutes later, I was joined by a grumpy-looking man his late twenties.
“What size shoe do you wear?” he asked.
“Nine?” I figured it was better to err on the large side.
The man left, then reappeared several minutes later with a suspiciously petite boot. When he unwrapped it from its packaging, I could see that it was labeled “SMALL”.
Wow — in what world is size nine a small? I marveled. Then, I tried on the boot and realized, Not in this world.
My toes hung off the boot by a non-negligible amount. When the man saw the poor fit, he cursed profusely and aggressively undid the boot’s straps.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, even though I had done nothing wrong. (And actually, I wanted to say, Your behavior is incredibly unprofessional. Shame on you for making a patient so uncomfortable.)
A couple minutes later, the replacement “MEDIUM” boot was a much better fit. The cantankerous young man left in a rush, and I didn’t really miss him.
Finally, it was time for me to leave. My first few steps were shaky, but I was able to walk out of Panorama on my own two feet. As I hobbled slowly toward the exit, I tried to reframe my thinking into gratitude, not annoyance.
My foot had a broken bone, but it would be healed in only a few weeks. I was made to wait an hour before being seen, but I had been able to get a next-day appointment at an orthopedic center mere minutes from my house. The staff hadn’t been universally welcoming, but Dr. Podiatrist had given me a quick and accurate diagnosis. The appointment had cost money, but our family has the financial means to seek treatment when one of us gets hurt. Overall, I had a lot to be thankful for.
Taylor was waiting in the parking lot when I limped outside. He handed me a cookie when I sat down, which made me fall in love with him all over again. The drive home was uneventful, and when we arrived, we discovered that everyone was still alive. (My mom is a pretty top-notch babysitter in that way.)
But then, I saw my dog. I looked at her, and she looked back at me.
Taylor: <grunts questioningly>
I patted his arm. “Don’t worry about it, babe.” Then, turning back to my dog, I commanded, “Get over here, Mache. It’s time for me to break your fifth metatarsal.”
To be continued…