Oh God Damn it

by

I cannot believe that this happened.

My friend said, “let me know when you’ve stopped beating yourself up, ‘k, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Nope.

I didn’t.

But I have to say it feels a little like punishment or God laughing at me, you know, after the post I wrote last night about losing my health or ability to walk or ride my bike or work, to now not be able to ride bike, work, or walk.

Irony?

Is it odd?

Or is it God?

ARGH.

I just got home from the ER at Kaiser on Geary.

THANK YOU TO MY ROOMMATE, MY FRIEND THE TAXI CAB DRIVER AND MY FRIEND THE NURSE.

Serious.

Thank you.

I haven’t had to ask for this much help in a while.

All because I wanted to be pro-active, I was scheduled to work 9a.m-5p.m. tomorrow, then a night shift, from 7:30p.m.-11:30p.m.

I figured I was alright with that, it’s a long day, but just one baby and then the weekend and you know, or maybe you don’t know, maybe it’s just me, that fear of not having enough money, especially when you, and by that I mean, me, thinks that I have to make more because I am going to need a new computer soon.

I had it all planned out.

“Do you know what God does when you make plans,” a friend said to me years ago after listening to my elaborate story, “he laughs.”

I didn’t get it then.

Oh, do I now.

Yes, I do.

I was going to come home, park my bicycle, hop on my scooter and drive down to the gas station, top her off so that I could ride it to work tomorrow and not worry about taking my bicycle home at 11:30 p.m. at night from 19th and Noe.

I figured I could even scoot out between the hours of 5p.m. and 7:30 pm and go see some folks at 2900 24th Street.

I just wanted to top off the gas.

That’s it.

Just a tiny little thing.

The scooter had not been ridden in four days, so of course it wasn’t interested in starting on the first kick.

I gave it a touch of gas, pulled out the choke, stuck my foot on the kick-start and plunged down.

Something in my ankle gave.

It felt like it folded over.

I screamed and saw not just white, but blue-white, total white out tinged with blue.

I heaved trying to catch my breath.

A minute, five passed, I don’t know.

I could hear the housemates boyfriend in the hallway, just holler for help.

I breathed in.

I am ok.

I put my foot down.

Ow!

Ok, so I am not exactly ok, but I am gonna be just fine, just need a moment to catch my breath.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“Breathe,” the text from my friend the cab driver said.

I responded from the bed in the ER, “thanks for the reminder, I had forgotten.”

True.

I had.

I grabbed the gate to the entrance way and steadied myself, I gingerly put some weight down, ok, it’s twisted, maybe sprained, but it’s going to be ok.

Next thought.

I guess I won’t be riding the scooter to work tomorrow morning.

Shit.

Second thought as I approached the scooter and slipped onto the saddle, “hmm, I don’t know if I am going to be able to ride my bike either.”

I straddled the scooter, pushed forward with my solid foot, and popped it off the middle stand, put it in neutral and pushed her back into the entry way.

I got off.

Pulled the keys out of the ignition and hobbled into my studio.

I stopped at bathroom.

Ibuprofen right now.

600 mg in the maw.

Went to the freezer, dumped tray of ice into plastic bag.

Sat down at the table, pulled the chair over and put my foot up on the seat.

God, that looks odd, I thought to myself, why does it look like that?

I pulled off my shoe, gasping a little, yeowch that hurts more than I was expecting.

My sock was distended, why is my sock all weird like that?

Oh.

Fuck.

Oh.

Fuck.

Oh fuck.

I almost threw up on myself when I saw what my ankle looked like.

I immediately called my housemate.

She got me set up, water, dish towel to wipe off the tears and eyeliner that was gushing down my face.

When I got home tonight and was picking up a little, I grabbed that dish towel and it was drenched, soaked through with tears.

Her sweet daughter told me about her twisted ankle and then her mom helped me call Kaiser, my insurance people through Healthy San Francisco, thank God I have that, thank God again.

I also called my friend the cab driver, who couldn’t catch half my conversation, the reception on my phone listing in and out.

“All I heard was “emergency room” and then the call dropped,” he told me later as he was driving me to the ER.

My house mate gave me more ibuprofen.

My friend the cab driver said I am on the way.

The advice nurse says, RICE.

I am doing it all and freaking out about not being able to go into work tomorrow.

That’s what I am worried about.

Work.

Gah.

The ER was not busy, thank God, although it felt like a comedy of errors as I was sitting in the waiting room being handed forms to sign, and the intake receptionist does what?

Yes.

That’s right.

She dropped a clip board on my ankle.

I just about passed out.

I actually started to laugh, it couldn’t be any stranger or, I am sure in hindsight, funny.

Par for the course.

Right a blog about getting injured and not being able to work and watch self getting injured and not being able to work.

“You are one tough lady,” doctor, the handsome doctor, I should add, said to me.

I told them I was not able to have any narcotic pain killers, that I was an addict and alcoholic and sober over nine years.

I bawled my head off.

I came close to passing out when the technicians in the x-ray lab took my x-rays and had to turn my ankle to get the shot.

There is good news.

Great news, really.

My ankle is not broken.

I still have to go back and see a specialist in the Podiatry Department at Kaiser and the doc said no weight on it for a week, no working, no, no, no.

“You’re a nanny?” He asked.

“How old,” he continued.

“16 months and 26 months,” I replied, starting to cry again.

(shit fuck motherfucker, crying now)

“And what about not bearing any weight on it for seven to ten days says you’re capable of working?” He asked bluntly. “Do you think you’ll be able to pick them up and carry them around on your crutches?”

Then he apologized, rubbing his weary, red rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m tired, I know you’re sober, but I could use a drink, a hot bath and my bed,” I have been on duty way too long,” he concluded. “I should not be saying that,” he looked around to see if there was a patient next to us.

“Nope, I get it,” I smiled, “big glass of red wine, hot bath, you deserve it.”

“And you should get someone to rub your feet,” he added.

So, with that in mind, since I wrote about getting hurt and then did.

I say, let this be the best thing ever.

Let this experience lead to amazing things.

I am going to let myself heal.

I will not worry about money.

I will get a foot rub from a sexy man.

Hell, from my boyfriend, I mean, I was supposed to go on a date Saturday after my commitment in Noe Valley.

Sure, it’s a first date and I found out he’s FOURTEEN YEARS my junior, but fuck it.

Why not.

Hey, you know, I know you had some dinner plans lined up, but let’s just stay in and you can rub my feet on our first date.

Bwahahahahaha.

Seriously.

I am not on any narcotics.

Perhaps stunned.

Definitely out of sorts.

But alive, foot propped up, draped in an ice pack, ibuprofen at hand, and re-wrapped in its splint because my amazing nursing friend picked me up from the hospital, helped me out of my jeans (which I had thought I would have to cut off to get off) and into a worn pair of yoga pants and then re-wrapped my ankle.

I am blessed.

Think about it.

I might have gotten on my scooter and got hit by a bus, who knows what tragedy the Universe saved me from.

I am lucky.

And I know it.

I still might cry a little more tonight.

Just sayin’.

You can knock a good woman down.

But you can’t keep her down.

Here’s to tomorrow being a better day.

 

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: