Monday, July 23, 2012

One foot down, one to go

So much for all that milk I drink.  Seriously, I must drink at least three glasses a day; a lot more than I drink water, anyways - so why the hell do I break so many bones?

The entire time that I wrote this post I was knocking on the wood table beside me - I don't need any more injury and I don't want this to jinx myself.

I broke my goddamn foot on Friday night.  What was meant to be a fantastic weekend out of town with some of my favourite people was plagued by my idiotic injury only hours after arriving - a trend you might realize when I divulge into my checkered past of injury.  A fantastic weekend it really was, though, don't get me wrong!  But the fact that I could barely even walk wasn't exactly fun.

The obvious thing to address was that I was very drunk.  When I'm drunk I'm still coherent enough that I almost never have problems with balance and walking, so it's not because I was too much of a mess.  Instead working against me was this deadly cocktail: a narrow hallway cluttered with large boxes, somewhere between nine to eleven beers in my system by eleven at night (we played a very grand game of King's Cup), and the song 212 by Azealia Banks.  I might've jumped, I could've tripped, though I definitely caught the edge of one of these boxes after getting excited over the song playing with my equally drunk good friend down the hall.  What did happen, though, as I remember the pain vividly, was that I collapsed entirely on the side of my right food.  I somehow dragged myself to the basement where I was to be sleeping amidst surging pain, I requested a beer, and I affirmed that I did not dislodge a bone since almost immediately after my fall appeared a massive bump.  I eventually passed out.  What came Saturday morning was a worse pain, a pain so bad I couldn't even deal with my nausea and headache from drinking twelve (the official count was twelve) beers the night before.

Here's a moment of candid confession: as I lay on the futon staring at the ceiling and knowing that I definitely fractured something, I cried.  I texted my mom who in her mom fashion proceeded to flip out and demand a call; she was extremely concerned and the reminded me of the very thing that made me cry to begin with - we're leaving for Florida in just five days, a vacation entirely centered around day trips to Disney and Universal complete with walking.  I eventually calmed myself down but I couldn't help and still can't help but feel upset with myself and my proneness to accident.  A visit to the walk-in clinic earned me nothing: the doctor was brisk and told me I broke the outermost bone in my foot but that there was nothing she could do for me and I should just go home and not walk - you think?  Walking is and was nothing but painful, but I managed to get myself to the theaters to see The Dark Knight Rises again, and my resilience continued as I took up the beers once again and made it out to the bar at night.  (sitting and ordering beers is not strenuous work) Today brought about severe bruising though slightly easier walking; I'm dragging myself around like a bloody zombie.

Thanks are in order for everyone there this weekend who were my personal brigade of service: I didn't have to leave my spot on the couch or on the rolling chair I used to propel myself around the house whatsoever, and I can only imagine how annoying waiting on someone might get.

I hate that I'm easily injured.  I hate that this had to happen before the upcoming ten days that require my walking ability, and I hate that my vacation will lack total relaxation as I need to grapple with this injury.  Another thanks to my friend who has given me one of those air casts that look like boots so hopefully that should at least give me some relief when walking.  I hate that my bones hate me, and I definitely hate that every injury I've had comes with an embarrassing story of cause.  Hey, remember that time I broke my foot when tripping in the hallway?  Yeah, it gets to join the ranks of that time when I fell on the stairs and broke my knee, or the time I fell off of my bike off of a boardwalk and broke my arm, the same arm I broke when slipping on plastic, and that time I broke my ankle when slipping on water.

This always happens.  (allow me to use this as a catharsis of self-pity, because shit happens and I have to deal with this because what's done is done and I need to focus on getting better now) This means, as I've already exhausted, that my Florida trip has now been somewhat damaged.  I can't go to Wonderland as I was planning to on Tuesday.  Can't drive.  Sure as hell can't work unless I can get to the point of standing on my feet for eight hours again, so I need to deal with calling that one in tomorrow about not being able to work the shifts I have this week.  And I definitely can't walk without strife, so don't take your ability to get up from your computer right now and go run a marathon or hell just even get to the washroom or fridge or your bed for granted.

Pray for me.

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