Dear Kid,
Sons of many b*****es.
I had Quite A Day yesterday.
It started out harmlessly enough.
I made coffee without spilling a drop.
I backed down the driveway without hitting any native wildlife.
I drove to PT without causing any breaks in the time-space continuum.
All good signs, right?
Then Kyle the Physical Therapist set to work. As I believe I have mentioned, Kyle is part sadist. A large part. Most physical therapists are. As in
Me: That hurts!
Kyle: Yep. I don’t believe anything we’re going to do for the next half hour is going to be particularly comfortable.
It’s the grin as his says this that gets me.
Once Kyle decided he’d inflicted sufficient torture (and by “inflicted sufficient torture” I mean our hour was up), I headed off to work.
The car in front of me took the Last Reasonable Spot in the parking lot, leaving me to hike from a spot 2½ miles away. Partway through my trek to the building, Dad called.
Having been ignored all morning, my cell phone got 3 kinds of excited at the incoming call and literally leapt out of my fingers.
In all the years (4,873 to be exact) I’ve owned a cell phone, I’ve never (as in not ever) broken a screen.
Streak over as of yesterday morning.
Wait. It gets better (and by “better” we all know I mean much worse).
Around 1:30 or so, I got a small cramp in my foot. NBD, right? Wrong. I walked down the hall to a meeting, a little annoyed at how uncomfortable the cramp was and a lot annoyed that it wasn’t un-cramping.
During the meeting, it got worse. So I took off my shoe and peeked. (OK, I had taken off my shoes the minute I sat down. Habit.)
My lovely narrow foot was no longer either. It was swollen, disfigured, and painful. Really painful.
Following the (blessedly short) meeting, I walked to the car (and by “walked” I mean somehow managed the 4½ mile reverse journey while putting minimal pressure on my foot) and drove to Urgent Care.
Where I learned that “Urgent” means “please enjoy our lovely waiting room for a really long time.” A really, really long time.
Hours.
Days.
Months.
Long time.
Eventually I saw a doctor who decided to list a whole bunch of scary options and take an X-ray.
Even without a trip to medical school I knew we needed an X-ray. I’m pretty sure I could have done without the list of scary options.
Post X-ray, we agreed that nothing was broken, my foot hurts like (censored), crutches might be an idea for a day or two, and a handful of meds might be in order.
Apparently the “Care” part of Urgent Care means “I dunno but I’ll try to make the pain stop and you should follow up with your Primary Care Physican.”
It’s possible that the morning’s PT caused the problem. It’s possible that dropping my cell phone caused the problem. It’s possible that I was bitten by a hungry walrus.
It’s even possible that someday I’ll be able to put shoes on again.
For the record, it’s 6.78 miles from the parking lot to the soccer stadium seats.
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