|My ugly boot on my ugly foot|
Jordan insists she's going to paint my toenails but
that reminds me of perfuming a pig
All night I kept thinking that if I could get this child off to school, I’d go back to a bed that I would have all to myself. I didn’t care if I slept all morning. Got myself settled, and the phone began to ring. Three calls from my doctor’s office telling me it was urgent I go to the orthopedist today because I have a displaced fracture of the little finger on the right hand. There went my lovely day in bed, so I got up and did some work at my desk.
My friend Carol brought lunch from the deli, and we set out for what proved to be slightly over two hours at the doctor’s office. More x-rays, more waiting—I admit my anxiety level was high, really high. The doctor was a nice guy, said my finger is healing well, and he was tempted to just let it be. Ultimately he decided on a splint for three weeks, but it is removable so I can type with some ease.
We decided the best explanation for this fracture is that I must have flung my hand out in the night and hit the high headboard on my antique bed just right. If Jacob had been there, I’d have blamed him, but alas, he was not. This type of fracture is called a boxer’s fracture because it is what would have resulted if I’d hit someone with a closed fist.
Came home exhausted, finally crawled into bed about five, Jacob appeared at six to do evening chores, and I went back to bed until 7:30. Now I need to catch up with myself. The doctor said one nice thing that boosted my ego—he said I was tough if I had a fracture for almost two weeks without knowing it. I told him I’d walked on the one in my ankle longer than that, and I thought I was clumsy not tough. (My mother would have said, “Why do you always run yourself down?”) Truth is I’d been feeling despondent about getting old and breaking bones, and his words cheered me a lot. Watch out, world! Here comes one tough old lady.