Two Left Feet

I seem to have an uncanny knack for injuring the extremities on my left side. A definite lack of grace and excess of klutziness have combined to create some rather embarrassing mishaps over the years.

It all began when I broke my left foot playing kickball on the blacktop in elementary school. Yes, I said blacktop. What school lets kids play kickball on a blacktop?? Of course, this was the same institution where we played many games of Red Rover, executed numerous wheelbarrow relay races, and threw the ball as hard as we could during not-so-nice dodgeball matchess. (I loved all those games, by the way, but the banning of traditional playground games could be an entirely other blog post.) After sliding on a blacktop (owwww!!!!) and injuring my foot, my parents didn't realize that my fifth metatarsal was broken until a week later. I'm not much of a sweller, so it was rather difficult to tell that anything was wrong. But, off I went to the doctor and came home with a brown, plether, orthopedic shoe (not exactly the height of fashion in the late '70s).

My next left-sided incident occurred when I was about fourteen and somehow (I don't quite remember what happened) twisted the ligaments in my left foot. I only recall having some funky leg wrap and being on crutches for a few weeks in the summer. Actually, I really remember crawling up and down the stairs at my house while dragging my crutches behind me- definitely not any fun.

I managed to stay left-side-injury free until last year, but, boy, was last summer a doozy. During a family Memorial Day cookout at our house, I fell down one step off our deck (Yes, the one lousy step in the picture!) and sprained my left foot. I was sooo embarrassed to trip off one step, especially when my 86-year-old grandmother had to help me get up off the ground. After my grandmother and mother helped me hobble into the house and ice my foot, I knew that something was wrong. I did agree to visit the doctor the following day and came home with a not-at-all-attractive orthopedic shoe. Let me tell you that sporting an orthopedic shoe for six weeks wreaked havoc with my summer flip-flop wardrobe. After finally trashing the shoe in Sarasota, Florida, beach sand over the Fourth of July, I trudged around in tennis shoes for the next few weeks before finally breaking out the flip-flops in August.


Now to my most recent, and possibly most ridiculous, injury: A week ago, I ran on a paved, wooded greenway while my children took classes at our local environmental center. I was having a great run until I stepped on a stick. Yes, I said a stick, not a limb, but a basic stick. As I stepped on one end of the stick, the other end popped up and scratched my shin. It was just a scratch that barely even bled. When I arrived at my cute and stylish convertible (okay, it's a minivan, but I pretend it's a convertible by rolling down the windows and cranking up the music), I cleaned out my superficial wound and even cleaned it again when I got home. All was well until Friday when my scratch started looking rather nasty. Not to gross you out, but it was puffy, red, and oozy. I debated about going to the doctor and felt rather ridiculous spending money on a doctor's visit for a stick's scratch. Of course, my dear, loving husband was of no assistance with his advice to open the wound and pour some hydrogen peroxide in it myself. I finally booked a doctor's appointment when Patrick threatened to give me some whiskey and something to bite down on before fixing it himself if I didn't stop obsessing about my leg (See what happens when you've been married fourteen years!).

So I sucked it up and visited the doc yesterday. Yes, it's infected. Yes, I have oral and topical meds. Yes, the wound had to be cultured to make sure I have not contracted MRSA or some other dread disease (Thankfully, I was assured that this was highly unlikely.) The worst part of the treatment, however, was the tetanus shot I had to get- you know, the tetanus shot that I have avoided for the past twenty years (See my April 9th Kentucky Bound post for more on my freakish fear of needles.). I really, really hate needles, and I only have to look at the dent in my right thigh which resulted from moving with a shot in my leg when I was one to remind me of my phobia. I did manage to get the shot without throwing a mommy meltdown, but darn my arm hurts today.

And am I getting any sympathy at home for this? Heck no, everyone just laughs at me probably like you are doing right now.