So on Thursday morning I sprained my ankle.  I didn’t realize that I’d sprained my ankle until much later that evening.  Correction:  I probably figured I’d sprained my ankle, but I didn’t realize that a sprained ankle was very serious until about 11:46 p.m., when I finally took off my shoes and socks for the day and saw that there was this protuberance the size of a softball growing out of my right ankle.  I mean, I knew it hurt and I couldn’t put much weight on it, but damn.  Who knew?

Madhousewife = Medically Unsavvy

Anyway, I said, “That doesn’t look good.”

And Sugar Daddy said, “Yeah, that doesn’t look good.  Are you going to go to the doctor?”

And I said, “Yeah, I’ll call in the morning.”

“You should go to the ER tonight.  It might be serious.”

“It’s flipping midnight.  I’m going to sleep.”

“Humor me and call the Dial-a-Nurse and make sure you shouldn’t go to the ER.  It might be something you should have looked at right away.”

So I rolled my eyes and called the Dial-a-Nurse and got put on hold, and I was tired and on hold, and SD said, “Go ahead and tell them your husband made you call.”  So when I finally got a nurse and she asked me what my deal was and I had to tell my super-lame story about how my foot hurt and was all swollen and I ran out of stuff to say about it, I said, “And my husband is making me call you.”

And said husband was Vindicated! when the Dial-a-Nurse told me I should have it looked at within the next two hours.  So it was flipping midnight and I was fixing to go to the ER, and SD asked if I could drive and if we shouldn’t call Gertrude (the babysitter) to come watch the kids so he could, and I was all, “Dude, it’s midnight.  I’m not calling Gertrude at midnight.”  I mean, I’d been walking and driving around all day, so even if it did hurt quite a lot, how much more damage could I do?  (Still under the impression that it couldn’t possibly be broken and therefore not considering the unmannerly implications of calling Gertrude at, say, 2 a.m. so SD could come pick me up at the hospital because I was rendered Seriously Unable To Drive Because There Was A Cast On My Foot Or Something.)

So yeah, I figured I’d have a wait in front of me, so I’d better bring something to read, but trouble was, I couldn’t decide on what I wanted to read.  I was between books–not counting my Eternally Reading selection, Sacred Causes by Michael Burleigh (so not taking that book anywhere)–and though my sister had loaned me two paperbacks at my Thanksgiving visit (not Twilight!), I couldn’t remember where they were because I told SD where I thought they were and he couldn’t find them, so whatever.  What to read, what to read…I really had to get going, but these things are important.  The Early Ayn Rand?  Eh…no.  Maybe Winesburg, Ohio.  No, wait, I never finished that Truman Capote.  No, wait, I did, too.  Get me Winesburg, Ohio.  It’s not perfect, but it will have to do.  My foot could be broken!

So I drove myself to the ER, where there was no parking in front, naturally, so I parked in the garage and hobbled into the ER in a rather undignified manner, told the admitting nurse what my deal was, and she asked if I wanted a wheelchair.  Seriously, a wheelchair?  Well, I guess so.  Why not?  Because I’d feel silly, that’s why–I’ve been walking around on this SOB all day.  But I said okay, anyway.  Still felt silly.  I’ve never been in a wheelchair when I wasn’t also holding a newborn baby and bleeding into a diaper.  Too vivid?  I’m sorry.  Moving on.

I had to tell about a dozen people how exactly I hurt my ankle.  I bet you’d like to know, too.  Well, suck it, audience, I don’t remember exactly how it happened.  I was walking to my car, carrying my three-year-old, and I had a stepping-off-porch FAIL.  THAT hurt like a #$*(#, let me tell you.  I repeat, #$*(#.  No less.  At the time, I thought, “Seriously, this hurts so much I would not be surprised if it was broken”–except I would have been surprised because I’m pretty indestructible and I’ve never broken anything, except maybe a toe, which doesn’t count.  Anyway, I had somewhere to be, so I went there, and eventually the pain just sort of died down and I just went about my business the rest of the day with this vague sense of ankle pain that I got so used to that later that afternoon, when it started feeling numb, I thought, “Why does my foot feel so weird?  Oh yeah, I hurt it this morning.”  But life goes on, my friends!  I went to a progressive dinner party for my ladies’ auxiliary that night–very good time, really glad I went, actually, except that I kept having to take my shoes off and put them back on, and that was annoying because at this point I really couldn’t put weight on the ankle without suffering unduly.  Not that I needed to see a doctor or anything crazy like that!  What I needed to do was go home and watch two hours of the X-Files before taking off my socks and discovering that my foot was TOTALLY DEFORMED.  But that’s where you came in.

So at one point the nurse asked me how much my ankle was hurting at that moment, on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being worst.  I never know how to answer that question, because a) pain can always be worse, so no matter how much it hurts, how can you ever say, “I’m a 10, 10 being the worst”? and b) I only really have a pain scale of 1 to 4:

1 = I’m not in pain.

2 = This pain is starting to damage my calm.

3 = This $%*( hurts like a #$*(#.


So as of this particular moment, when I was being asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10, I’m thinking on the scale of 1 to 4, it’s more like a 2.85, and the conversion to the 10-point scale was eluding me, and I couldn’t decide if it was a 5 or an 8–8 seemed excessive, but 5 sounded like I was wasting their time, so I settled on “7?”  Even if it wasn’t true, what were they going to do?  Refuse to treat me?  I was insured and everything!

So they took some x-rays, put me in a little room with my own TV and remote, and I watched three minutes of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil JFK (thank you, odetocorny), which I only watched because I saw Kevin Bacon on the screen and I was curious which Kevin Bacon movie it was, and then I saw Tommy Lee Jones in a tight perm, and then everyone was gay, so once that mystery was solved, I switched it over to Scrubs, which just made me wonder what time it was because I like Scrubs, and it’s never on when I’m awake.  Then the doctor came in and announced that my ankle was not broken.  (Big shock there–I told you all!)  And then he said some other stuff, blah blah, and then they brought me my outpatient instructions and some guy took for-freaking-ever to put a velcro splint on my leg–seriously, dude, it may not be broken, but I’m not enjoying this, how complicated is that Velcro??? But at least I got to see all of Scrubs.  And then the velcro-challenged guy redeemed himself by pushing my wheelchair out to my car, which I was very foolishly going to drive home myself, but he just felt sorry for me and didn’t talk about what a fool I was.  I appreciated that.

I was instructed to stay off my feet for the next few days, and that’s where the story gets boring.  I think I’ve bored you enough already.  The doctor gave me a prescription for Vicodin, which I was a bit reticent about filling because Vicodin has always seemed kind of hardcore to me, prescription-wise, and I’d totally just driven myself home from the hospital–foolishly, but still–did I really need Vicodin when the ibuprofen was working just fine?  But SD filled the Vicodin for me, on principle, I think.  Anyway, I took some on Friday evening before I went to bed, and then I couldn’t sleep.  My mind was going a million miles per hour, and I finally thought, “Screw this, I’m hobbling downstairs and doing something that isn’t sleep because this is just making me mad.”  So I got up and then my body went wheeee to the right and wheeee to the left, and back and forth wheeeeeeeeeee until I finally staggered back and fell onto the bed like I was made of cement blocks, and I still couldn’t sleep, but there was no more moving for the rest of the night.  And now I see the recreational potential for Vicodin.  But it’s really not for me:  I’m straight.  Another relatively expensive controlled substance wasted on the Mormon housewife!

Anyway, I’m better now.  I’m going to start driving again tomorrow, and I don’t think it will be nearly as foolish as the last time I drove somewhere.  And now to bed.  Gentle readers, adieu.