Huh, I thought, maybe I need a little more support. So with my arms full, stretching on the top ladder rung, I extended my right foot to the two steps leading into the house. That's it...just a little farther...almost there...
Clatter! Bang! Crash! Snap!
I ate the concrete floor. Pain shot through me, even more so when I noticed the odd angle my leg was positioned beneath me, a position not even a contortionist would attempt.
Screams went up. Pleas for help to my wife inside the house. And a string of obscenities that would make a sailor blush.
Finally--finally!--my wife came searching for me. Found me in a heap on the floor. After a bit, I got up, brushed myself off. Looked at the dangling sheetrock and thought the job needed to be completed.
"Oh no, you're not!" exclaimed my wife. "Can you move your leg?"
I wiggled it. Sure, the pain was excruciating, but it wiggled just fine. "No problem," I said.
My wife wasn't convinced. But I wanted to be as tough as the guys in movies who sew up their own bullet-wounds. No pain, no gain! Bite down on leather! Tough it out! Hoo-hah!
Cut to two months later.
Hmm, I thought, my leg still really hurts.
My wife had had enough, scheduled an appointment for me. Because, really, going to the doctor is for wusses and hypochondriacs.
"Well," the orthopedic surgeon explains, "you broke your leg."
Huh. Fancy that. For two months I've been driving, walking the dog five times a day (because he, too, had shattered his knee irreparably), dragging my mother through weekly grocery store runs, even walking on the treadmill, for God's sake.
They fit me with what they call a "boot." It's more like Frankenstein footwear, blocky and cumbersome . I can't drive. I can't walk. Can't do anything. Which is really kinda' dumb when you consider how active I was for the prior two months.
|Das Boot der Frankenstein!|