I've been novel reading, writing, cleaning, and repositioning my possessions so I can cram more of them in here. Hence the lack of blogs.
I had intended to republish my Reflections of 10 years ago, but have been too preoccupied to even do much of that. However...
Today's blog is not a meander down Memory Lane. It's "Hot off the presses!" current events.
Well, it's been nine long days and nights since I fell prey to domestic sabotage--translation--my domicile, with sadistic, insidious, and clear malice of forethought, attacked me! or more simply stated I slipped and fell in the hall right outside my bathroom and wrecked my right foot, knee and the toe next to the big one.
Now before you ask,
No, I did Not hie myself directly to the emergency room so they could tell me what I already knew or offer me treatment that I could and would have already done on my own, and
Yes, I knew right off, with absolute certainty, that the toe was broken and all that anyone anywhere could do for me was tape it--which I knew very well how to do all by my lonesome.
Three and a half days later, when I had the fortitude to navigate in my lovely, nearly vintage, stick shift auto, I took myself to the doctor who viewed the damaged digit from a safe distance and officially affirmed my original diagnosis of "broken toe" without, mind you, laying a hand or so much as a finger on me at any time.
She did, however, to forestall the slightest hint of malpractice, write out two prescriptions, one for x-rays and another for a boot, neither of which could by any stretch of the imagination fit into my meager budget, which I told her while she was scribbling away.
She handed them over anyway and added that no matter what, all anyone else would do was tape the toe to the one next to it until it healed, and then she sent the nurse in to replace the tape I'd worn into the office. Bah-da-bum!
The nurse arrived with dull surgical scissors and some vicious looking, non-waterproof, too wide tape that was virtually guaranteed to rip the skin right off my body when I was forced to replace it after my very next shower. Thanks, but no thanks.
No stranger to the boredom and tortures found in medical facilities, I somehow had the presence of mind that day to bring in my "busy bag" similar to the ones I used to pack for my children with a library book, hand-held electronic game, and medical supplies (tape and scissors!)
I generously allowed the nurse to put the finishing touches on the re-taping I mostly did myself with my own supplies. (I did want her to feel needed and part of the healing process.)
She was so impressed with my expertise, she told me I should have gone to nursing school. My instant response was a terse "no." And all I could think was thank goodness I've had enough Girl Scout Red Cross training and experience with my children's and my own accidents to take care of most of these things on my own.
In all fairness, I must add that they were nice enough to squeeze my emergency into their schedule and I greatly appreciate that.
This incident has reinforced my opinion about Home Sweet Home being one of the most dangerous places on the face of the earth.
My homes have maimed, and nearly killed, me on numerous occasions. I don't know why I ever thought this new place would show me any mercy whatsoever.
I bear eternal scars from the concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads in front of childhood homes from the days when I was trying to learn how to control roller skates and a two-wheeler. These are nothing compared to the implosion marks from an apple corer/slicer that dug into both palms simultaneously or scar on my thumb from the paraffin slicer that demanded tribute when I was helping mom make strawberry preserves.
I lost mobility and had nerve damage in one of my little fingers for over a year when a perfectly good drinking glass decided to explode and slash in my dishpan one bright and sunny day. That one could have used stitches, but being the little Miss Fix-It that I am, I applied homemade butterfly closures and used a Q-Tip for a splint to keep the skin from gaping open to the bone.
Ewwww! Now I'm grossing myself out, but if you want to check it out for yourself, you can see the subsequent scar is no worse than a trip to the ER would have left. The splint stayed on for two weeks; I got some mobility back in three months, full sensation back in 12 months, and surprise, surprise, I survived.
It doesn't take a medical degree to know how and when to alternate ice and heat to reduce swelling, or to take aspirin for inflammation. I took to my bed with my foot elevated, rested, and napped quite a bit. I've liberally applied a topical pain ointment to the injured knee that wants to stiffen up on me, and I've eaten copious amounts of chocolate ice cream, which everyone knows is a sure cure for whatever ails you. And, lo and behold, it's all helped, especially the chocolate.
I had started the process of correcting the position of the abused toe almost immediately.
** Warning: Skip this part if you are too empathetic or easily nauseated!
As I lay naked in the hall floor after my left leg attempted a foolish, forward split and the right leg crumpled under me with the toes acting as a useless tripod, and the pain washing over me like a tsunami, I rolled onto my left hip and grabbed that poor bit of flesh and bone (yes, the broken toe!) and pulled it out of its "hind leg of a junkyard dog" position.
What the hay; I was already in agony, but not so much that I didn't know that later wouldn't be easier and if I ever wanted to get this puppy into a pair of shoes that didn't have to have a porthole carved into it to accommodate this monstrosity, it was now or never.
With a few more, very unpleasant, painful tugs and some strategically placed, nifty taping, I've almost gotten the toe back to ground level, but I may have to admit defeat eventually in getting it to point straight ahead instead of to the outside edge of my foot.
I'm not really into repeating that much pain in an ongoing, and possibly fruitless, pursuit.
A couple days after the vicious attack, I was able to hobble up to the laundry room, via the elevator, and on my last trip downstairs, something in my foot that was loose or misplaced snapped back into place all by itself. I'm taking it easy and trying to keep the foot happy, but I know I have a way to go before I'll know if that click was 100% successful.
Meanwhile, I've been subjected to vast quantities of well-meaning, but slightly insulting advice and suggestions. To this I'd like to clear up a few things.
1) I believe that unless the owners of this building put handholds on every single wall in every apartment AND replace the flooring with fluffy foam mats, which is never going to happen, none of us living here is completely safe!
2) I have been getting out of this tub for nearly a year and nothing close to this has ever happened so I was totally unprepared for an impromptu, ice skating disaster.
3) I DO recognize, appreciate and routinely use the handicap handholds inside the tub and I did NOT fall getting out of the tub!
4) I did not trip over the rug, fling water onto the floor willy-nilly, oil the floor, my feet or any part of my body, feel dizzy or pass out before or after I hit the floor.
5) Suggestions and comments to the contrary are apt to set me off and it is completely possible that I might retaliate at any given moment by smacking the jowls of anyone who is not careful while I'm recovering or at any time in the future--so consider yourself warned!
I was not clumsy, negligent or careless.
It was an ACCIDENT!
Okay, believe me or not, I was an innocent in this!
I was lulled into a false sense of security and then slammed to the ground and injured when I least expected it!
But, when you get down to it, the truth is that I should have known better.
After all, I was safe at home!
P.S. Special thanks to my daughter who has been there for me all week to drive me wherever I needed to go and has run so many errands for her wounded mum, and much love to those who would have been here if they could, and have offered me great moral support from a distance. I love you all VERY MUCH!
