I thought it was just a phase. Apparently, that was an incorrect assumption on my part. Cheers for the day when you realize you are not impervious.
Those days are becoming more frequent.
A few months ago, I decided it was safe to walk down my hallway. I came around the corner from the office, seemingly on good terms with both gravity and centrifugal force, and busted my foot off of the door jamb of the bathroom entryway, opposite me.
I didn't think I even knew some of those swear words.
As usual, I'm wondering if I'm just a huge wuss and milking it because I was angry that it even happened.
Many years ago, I sliced my right-hand pointer finger on the metal edge of a vent plate that was dangerously jutting out from the wall in my college dorm room. Flicked a lightswitch with a bit too much flare and needed 6 stitches. First trip to the emergency room sans parents. The weird thing is that, even though it hurt like all get-out, I was focused more on:
1. My complete reluctance to admit it was worthy of medical attention. . .
2. The inconvenience of finding a ride to the hospital and. . .
3. Overwhelmingly trying to figure out what an art major without a functioning right hand was supposed to do for the rest of the semester.
As I hopped up and down in the kitchen ( I don't remember how I got there ) recreating those last few moments before the toe-stub of the century, I wondered why Adam wasn't responding to my stream of expletives that was quickly transforming into pathetic weeping. I somehow managed to grab whatever frozen bag of vegetables I could get my hands on, not really concerned with the idea of putting, on my feet, something I would be putting in my mouth later.
I'm not sure why I felt I needed numbing. I was already experiencing that strange half-numb, half-excruciating pain thing that occurs sometimes when you happen to shuffle off a bit of your mortal coil. I was partially worried that, instead of stubbing my toe, it had actually been amputated to a stub. That, were I to look back the way I came, I would find that I had literally left part of myself behind. At least Adam could follow the blood spore.
You know when you hurt yourself something fierce and you grab whatever is in pain and you hop up and down or fall to the earth or whatever your cup of tea is in that regard? Then, you start to calm down? But. . .you're afraid to look? Not that it matters whether you look or not. The damage is done; might as well take care of it as quickly as possible. There's just something about that moment. The fear, the trepidation. The worry. What did I do to myself? What's missing? What does it look like? Is it reparable? Can I fix it? Do I need immediate medical attention from some sort of professional? How long will I be put up for? Can I drive? Man, we're out of milk. How am I gonna drive to the store? Crap! I've got a meeting tomorrow. WHY CAN I FEEL MY HEART IN MY TOE?!
Turns out Adam was playing a computer game with headphones on. He was spared my embarrassing outburst and came out just in time to find me curled up in a sorry and huddled mess on the kitchen floor, tears streaming down my face, with a bag of part of our dinner wrapped around my left foot.
He wouldn't say so, but I'm sure he thought I was just being a baby. We all stub our toes. It hurts.
Yeah. I'm a baby.
I'm all healed up now. It took a while. And I missed out on committing to some Zumba and getting back into running with Adam. But at least I didn't break my toe.
More recently, Adam and I made a trek back to Idaho to visit family and enjoy an extended weekend. We stop off at the Ellensburg McDonald's to use their fine facilities and grab some delicious McFlurries. First of all, tell me what a coat hook is doing located at just above elbow height ( Am I really a giant and no one told me? ) and then tell me what it was doing gouging itself into my right bicep. It was like being stabbed with a spoon. Again, one of those numbly painful things. I actually felt nauseous and had to gather myself together before exiting back into humanity.
Shrugged it off. These things happen. I joked to Adam when I came back out that, although I was having trouble moving my arm immediately and assuming that was just nervular shock, I was probably going to have quite a bruise.
I was kidding!
Yeah.
What is up with me? It's like I don't know where I begin or end anymore. My balance is shot. I have no control over my flailing body parts. For the first few weeks after injuring my toe, I walked down my hallway and through doorways with my arms flat at my sides, my shoulders held up just below my ears, my feet face-forward and shuffling. Paranoid much?
I don't think it's all my fault. There is some universal Murphy's Law that is coming after me exclusively for circumstances in which I leave a cupboard door open at head height, try to get a candle lit before my extra-long matches burn down, or slice a tomato. If I can find some way to injure myself on a blade of grass (fishing with my dad as a kid ), I'll julienne those fingers. If I can get a brush burn from opening up a bag of sugar ( yesterday, making dessert ), I will brand that hand. If I can poke myself in the eye brushing my teeth ( this morning ), "Aye, Aye Cap'n."
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