It’s been two weeks now since I missed the last step as I was coming down the stairs on a sunny Saturday morning. I can still remember the pain, the denial, the hoping against hope for this thing to go away. Bob Dole don’t need dat, oh no! I must have used up about a year’s supply of adrenaline, shouting, panting, and generally behaving like a big baby. But dang, it hurt!
For awhile there it was “Almost Broke my Foot”, sung to the tune of “Almost Cut My Hair”, by David Crosby, persistently intoning the idea into my head as I writhed in pain on the rug, but in fact it was broken, damn, damn, damn! Well then, that’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into! You couldn’t watch where you were going?!
The foot sticks out in front of you and you’re convinced there still is a chance you can will it into, say, a bad sprain … it’s not too late to try. Think positive, through the pain. Yeouch! But “No, sir. Uhhuh. Ain’t gonna be no sprain, brother, not f’i can hep it!” Oh, she’s a mean one, that one. She’s mean through and through.
The milky sun slants across the wood floor, to the base of the stairs, to the rug, and me sitting partly on it, the heel of the right foot under me, on the wood floor, and the other leg stretched out, with that left foot (broken) resting on the rug. I am nursing it back to health, trying to think positive thoughts. But this is not so easily done. “Sheesa no commin’ bak! Sheesa no so heppy this time! Sheesa hurt real bad, boss.”
Well, well. I must say. It all comes on so fast, and when it happens it’s a real shock to the system. Did not see that one coming. Just goes to show you ….
How very, “Convergence of the Twain”, and “Crash, the cruel coulter passed, out thro’ thy cell,” and suchlike sayings. Yep… best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang oft agley. Surgery on Wednesday, then crutches in the snow.