(I’m typing this as my dog is sleeping on my right foot, dreaming, twitching, and barking in his sleep.)
So, there was this tree. And it needed pruning. Not a very big tree, really. But apparently big enough.
And I have some killer branch chompers. So I got into the tree. And well, kinda got out of the tree. Abruptly. And since I’d already done some definite damage to the tree before gravity nudged me onto the ground, I landed somewhat tangled in some branches.
While flat on the ground, staring at the tree that ousted me and doing the mandatory self-assessment that usually follows such a test of gravity, @ walks over and looks down at me very seriously.
@: Mama, get up. We still have work to do.
Me: Why don’t we go inside and watch TV for awhile.
@: No Mama, we’re not done working.
Me: Well, I need a little break to ice my leg.
@: Well OK, but we’re not finished working.
Junior Taskmaster, at your service.
I had a pretty good bruise on my foot and figured I’d sprained my ankle. (Yes, in fact, I did conveniently extend the definition of ankle for this self-diagnosis. Why do you ask?)
When the “sprain” was still rather uncomfortable after three weeks, I relented and called up my podiatrist (who really oughta be on speed dial by now).
Surfer Doc: What did you do?
Me: Fell out of a tree.
Surfer Doc: No, really.
Surfer Doc: Some people hire gardeners.
Surfer Doc: When did you do it?
Me: You don’t want to know…
Surfer Doc: You’re never going to learn, are you?
Me: Probably not.
So, x-rays taken, he gets his nifty ruler and measures the film. Then measures my leg and proves, beyond doubt, that yep — three inches above my ankle — that’s the spot. On my left leg. Then he shows me the fracture on the film. And yes, I laugh rather hysterically. Because by now, it’s funny.
My oft-therapied, scarred, and screwed left leg is now back in the lovely massive velcro boot contraption that I’m smart enough not to throw away.
A year ago this week, I had surgery to repair my Achilles tendon on my left leg. Two years before that, surgery to remove a broken bone and fuse my big toe with a two-inch titanium screw — on my left foot. A few years before that, a couple of other foot surgeries and a knee surgery. ALL ON MY FREAKIN’ LEFT LEG.
The last thing I wanted to do was admit that the sprain was yet another bit of damage to this dang thing. Alas. So I had to call my dad to let him know I wouldn’t be able to help much with work on the weekend of the fourth.
LD: Now what did you do?
Me: Well, there was this tree…