I wasn't kicking old ladies on the street, as my friend Karen suggested I might have done. It was Bethany. Not that I meant to kick her. And she was definitely not kicking me. It's just that our kitchen it small. So really, it's the architect's fault. If he had designed a little more space between the kitchen sink and the island, I would have fit easily behind Bethany as she washed the breakfast dishes. And then my toe would never have caught her ankle. And it wouldn't have stayed there, caught on her foot, as I passed her, and the bone would not have snapped. But since the architect was trying to save space, and probably earned enough that he did not ever need to wash dishes himself, he did not understand the dangerous situation he was creating, and my toe is now broken.
I went to the ER yesterday, and as my friend Jill pointed out, "All they're going to do is tape you up and tell you to go see a real doctor." One roll of tape, two crutches and several hours later, Rachel and I left to find a "real" doctor.
Which happened this morning. He was nice, and his kids are homeschooled, and they even use Singapore Math, which means they are probably smart, which suggests he is probably smart, too. All of which is good, because tomorrow morning I'm trusting him to put a pin (he said, "think finishing nail") into my pinkie toe. But not all the way in. The end will be sticking out the tip of my toe. =/ And then, in about 3 weeks, I'll go back into his office where he will-- (you should sit, if you're not already)-- Pull It Out with PLIERS! <=O
Does anyone else think this sounds like something from the middle ages? Or some combination of Star Trek meets Atilla the Hun? He assured me it wouldn't hurt anymore than what I've already gone through while breaking it. Considering that I was gasping for breath, unable to speak, trying not to cry out loud from pain in front of my kids... that's not really comforting. But the alternative is a permanently weird, likely-to-be-re-broken toe sticking out the side of my foot. So, I guess I'll go with the pliers.
One odd thing is that I broke my right pinkie toe (this time it's the left) in exactly the same way 9 years ago-- two days before Mike and I left for Ukraine to adopt Peter and Naomi. Weird, huh? When I told Mike what I'd done, he said, "We're not adopting any kids any time soon, are we?" I think I need to work on my proprioceptive skills, to become more in tune with my pinkie toes.
That's all the news today from The Cottage on the Hill, where the yellow rose bush talks (thanks for the heads-up warning there, Dan-- I'll keep an eye on it) and the dahlias are finally showing their... um.... sprouts? despite the almost constant rain lately. YAY!
Feel free to keep me in your prayers.
=)
