Train Wreck, or, Lightning Rod for Disaster

Both of those are descriptions which have been applied to me (by others) within the last day. Because. I deserve them.

Over the weekend I was dealing with a neck strain that just kinda happened for no reason. (Occurs periodically.) And a head cold. Both of which were MUCH better by yesterday, which is a good thing, because I can only deal with one major health issue at once.

YESTERDAY. I was going to help my dad pick up a bed that he bought at a lawn sale. King size frame w/ headboard, footboard, rails, box springs, and mattress (all for $75!). The girl had warned Dad multiple times that it was very, very heavy. So Dad brought me to help lift.

Discovered while we were there that we would be carrying these things over an extremely steep banking of gravel and soft dirt. Decided this was a recipe for disaster, yet pressed on.

Those in our reading audience who like to guess ahead have no doubt assumed that I somehow injured my back, or perhaps re-injured my neck, in the precarious climb up the banking. Or maybe a slide *down* the banking. And while those are good guesses (and would have been my picks if I were writing this story in realistic fiction), they are not correct.

No, markira has to be unique. SHE hurt herself....wait for it....carrying the rails to the truck. The little, lightweight, nothing rails. Which, as I was stepping over the bar which connects the trailer to the truck, were tossed unceremoniously willy-nilly as my foot slid into a wheel-rut in the driveway that I didn't notice, rolling my ankle and causing a very bright, spectacular pain.

As I was alone at that moment (thankfully no one witnessed the spectacle of me), I managed to sit down on the bumper of the truck and waited for the pain to subside. Which it took its sweet time in doing. Eventually, at about the same time that I was able to take a normal breath, Dad came 'round the corner with the footboard and saw me. And had to laugh at my latest display of grace.

The woman whose bed we had purchased was horrified that I had hurt myself, and most apologetic (for no reason...my fault I'm a klutz). She offered ice, and to help me get into the house to sit down, and other things I don't remember, but I just waved it all off graciously and (okay, here's where I was kinda stupid, but in a stoic, classic DownEaster way) WALKED DOWN THE BANKING TO HELP MOVE THE MATTRESS. Yup. With a twisted ankle. That hurt like hell. And I did it anyway. Hey, it had to be done. The woman was this little bitty adorable thing who wouldn't have been able to do it, and if I didn't, then Dad would have to do all this stuff later, and I felt really stupid that I hurt myself in such an asinine way, and so I just did it. And we got the mattress onto the back of the truck. (Dad actually carried the weight of most of it on his back, which completely FLOORED the woman, who apparently is unfamiliar with the toughness of the breed of Mainer from which I descend.)

So we got the mattress, I met the woman's little girl (Julia Page, who was 4.5 and absolutely adorable, and probably the most well-spoken and charming little girl of that age I have ever met), discovered that I went to junior high & high school with the woman's husband (and he was a completely hot guy who I had totally wanted to date, all the way up until....well, until I discovered that he was married--he is the complete package: hot, smart, athletic, NICE...he was just ideal. Lucky her. And she's so nice, I can't even hate her. Doesn't that suck?). Anyway, yet another reason to downplay the injury.

So by the time we left, I had peeled off my shoe and sock, and caught a look at the very rapidly swelling mess that was my ankle. And Dad saw it, and we went right back to his house instead of mine, so we could get some ice on it immediately. And after an hour or so (it would have been sooner, but my uncle popped in for a visit and so I didn't really want to admit that I was in a lot of pain or anything), I finally admitted that I should probably go to the ER.

And the result is that I have a torn ligament and I'm on crutches for at least the rest of the week. I'm supposed to allow absolutely no weight-bearing on the ankle for the first 2-3 days, then partial weight bearing for the next 2-3 along with a lace-up ankle brace for support. "Let pain be your guide," said the ER doctor, in describing how to know when to move from one step to the next. 'Cause y'know, I might not have known that.

I got a ride for Mark to his game last night, a different person to pick up Kira for *her* game tonight, my mom came to the house today to do some laundry and cleaning for me (thanks, Mom!), and I had to cancel out on the Brownie overnight on Saturday, 'cause I'll probably still be on crutches and that's no way to go.

Lemme tell you, though, that just in the last day of being on those things, I am developing some great muscles in my arms. And some beautiful bruises on the sides of my breasts under my armpits. And this is the part where I'm just really using them to get from the couch to the stairs (where I climb up on my knees and slide down on my butt) and along the hall to the bathroom or to my bedroom. I'm not even really *going* anywhere. That kinda tells me that my arms were really, really out of shape for this kind of activity.

OK, so Mark is glaring at me to get off the computer and get back on the couch and elevate my ankle (the swelling is still horrific). So off I go. mk