At the young age of 51 years, 8 months, and 7 days, I landed my first-ever broken bone.
(I am discounting that tip of elbow I broke off after falling off a conductor’s podium in the late 1990s, since that required nothing but Ibuprofen.)
What I had hoped was a severe sprain of the right ankle is indeed a hairline fracture of the fibula. So the doctor confirmed yesterday.
I am swathed in black Velcro, stuffed into a boot that is keeping my foot at 90 degrees to my leg, immobilizing the offended bone.
The leg is elevated to help reduce swelling. Samson is ministering to my needs in a fine way, keeping me company and providing succor and sweetness.
Fr. Mike has been over this morning from church to administer Unction. And my leg felt better when he left.
I’m told that I should expect back and hip pain next, given the stiffness of this walking cast, and the height of its base. What I’m told is already true, I’m sad to say.
Folks have called to inquire about how I’m doing. Truth be told, I’m fine. This is a nuisance and a pain (both literally and figuratively), but what is one to do? The break could have been much worse. I’m still ambulatory. I can work from home, as I am doing again today for a second day. I have people I love who are willing to help out as needed, as is already evident from the offers of help, both proffered and accepted. I have food at home; I can get around, albeit slowly; I have the glorious miracle chemical Hydrocodone; and I have the means to rent a car, since I can’t drive a stick-shift for a while. And as Fr. Mike so wonderfully reminded me, I have a loving companion named Samson the Feist.
Now, about that trip to Europe in two week’s time . . . .
Thanks be to God for small graces, for little kindnesses, and for teensy hairline fractures.