Damn Nature!

For my parents' 40th wedding anniversary, I decided to arrange a family get together weekend in Galena. We rented a large four bedroom house in the Galena Territory, which was beautiful. The house was perfect for the nine of us - me, my two kids, my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, and their two kids. The house was down in a valley and surrounded by trees. Oak trees, to be exact.

There were two decks and a porch. The larger deck was half screened in and half open. We grilled almost every night we were there for the grown-ups' meal. We ate in the screened in porch-dining-room. The other porch was smaller and all screened it. It contained a hammock and was on the third floor. Swinging in that hammock in the middle of the oak tree forest was like heaven. There was a slight chill in the air and I took my kids up there and rocked slowly to the beat of a nearby woodpecker. I sang them every song I could remember while we snuggled under a blanket and rocked. We listened to the oak trees drop their acorns one by one on the roof of the porch. I could have stayed there in that hammock forever.

As is par for the course for any family gathering, there were ups and downs. Any family that says they get along with each other for five straight days is lying. Real families don't work that way. We all have our own quirks and habits, our own pet peeves and annoyances, and we all have old family-battle-wounds ready to be exposed for fresh blood.

But those old wounds are the subject of another post. I'm here to speak of new wounds . . . mine, specifically.

On Tuesday late morning, we were all packed and ready to go. My kids were crabby because it was right after lunch and time for their naps. My plan was to get on the road so they could sleep all the way back to Peoria in the car. I was in a rush. I was charging around like a madwoman loading the car. I was charging around on an uneven gravel driveway . . . covered with acorns. I slipped on a bunch of acorns, heard a loud POP from my right ankle and went down.

I'm sure I screamed FUUUUUUUCK!!!! because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. As I lay on the ground, my son came to look at me saying, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My daughter and my parents were right there too. The swelling in my right ankle started immediately and I couldn't put any weight on it.


God Damn Acorns!


I found some athletic tape in a first aid kit and wrapped my ankle. My parents offered to take me to the hospital in Galena or drive me home to Peoria. Both of those options sound like a colossal waste of time . . . and huge disruptions in my kids' schedule that would surely lead to screaming and fit-throwing. No. I wanted to keep on my schedule and . . . just . . . go . . . home.

The good news was I could still drive, after copious amounts of Advil. The pressure of using the gas and brake pedals was not that bad on my ankle. So I drove all the way home and then called a very good friend to come sit with my kids while I went to Prompt Care. After one look at the ankle, the doctor thought it might be broken.

But it wasn't . . . just a really, really bad sprain. So, I got a nice air/gel split, a beautiful set of crutches, and a three week supply of Vicodin. Yay Vicodin!!

The first night wasn't so bad. I took a Vicodin and thought . . . this will be fine. Sure - I'll hobble around for a few days, but it won't really slow me down.

WRONG. Having a sprained ankle sucks and sucks hard. Let me tell you the ways it sucks and sucks hard:

(1) My foot looks disgusting. It is all swollen and purple/red/green/grey/yellow. The black-purple bruises go all the way around my foot. The purpleness extends to my toes and my toes are swollen. Worse than that . . . I can't comfortably reach my toenails to paint them and the old polish looks like hell. And even worse than that . . . I can't balance long enough in the shower to shave my legs. Bottle of Nair . . . here I come!

(2) Walking on crutches is fucking HARD work. By the end of the first full day of crutches, my arms hurt worse than my ankle. So, I abandoned one crutch and am hobbling around using one as a counter balance to my gimpy foot.

(3) It takes twice as long to do anything (although that may be a side effect of the Vicodin) and certain things start to look impossible. I haven't done laundry from our trip yet because I would have to repeatedly go up and down two flights of stairs carrying laundry baskets and I'm just not able to do that while either (a) sitting on my butt and sliding down or (b) crawling up on my knees.

(4) The only shoes I can wear are Birkenstocks because my foot is so fat. This may become an issue when I have to go to court. Birks are frowned upon in court. Hell . . . exposed toes and heels are frowned upon in court.

(5) Because I can only wear Birks, my work clothing options are limited unless I want to look like an idiot. And since I already look like half an idiot limping at a snail's pace around the office, I don't feel like looking like a complete idiot.

(6) People have been so nice and helpful, but I have a really hard time accepting help. It was so hard to watch Katie wash my dishes last night while her daughter helped my daughter get ready for bed and her son pick up toys in my living room. I don't know how I will ever repay them, although I did promise to clean their house if Katie ever breaks or sprains anything.

Although some people think I am whining too much, I have actually found some bright spots in my current predicament. This injury has shown that maybe I need to take a step back from my Type A tendencies. Does it really matter that the house is not totally picked up? Does it really matter that there is undone laundry, as long as we all have clean clothes to wear? Does it really matter if we don't leave the house exactly on time in the morning? Will my children be permanently harmed by eating fast food every night for a week? No. (I really typed "yes" there first . . . I'm working on it.)

I don't know who said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger*" but I subscribe to that theory. Given the last year of my life, I should be really freaking strong by now.


*Here's the thing with that quote - if something doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger, right? But you won't know if something is killing you or making you stronger until you are dead. Then you will know what killed you, but it's not like you can go back and say, "Damn it - that thing really was bad enough to kill me" because you're dead. So, just assume everything makes you stronger until something kills you. If you don't die, then you know you are stronger!