4/29/2024
Okay, so originally I set out to make my blogs about books, authors, and writing, but this blog post is not. However these posts are about a journey, my journey, which includes you.
So I thought I would share with you what happened recently and, hopefully, you will find humor in it. First, let me tell you a little story about my experiences growing up.
Entering my teens, there was a time-period where I grew an inch a month for eight months in a row. Literally! One time it was an inch in one week. I grew and grew, and surprisingly no “growing pains” or awkwardness. Later on, my feet grew. I had a hard time adjusting since I wasn’t used to my stepping range and found myself constantly stepping on other people’s feet. Still no growing pains. I was lucky in that regard.
Now what? Still no growing pains, but … perhaps worse. Maybe. Hopefully not.
I was helping Mom organize some recipes in a binder. Midway through the project, Mom called me to lunch so I left the binder on the floor with the intention of finishing after I ate. One moment everything was fine. The next moment, my foot was screaming to me as though it had just hit its internal funny bone as pain surged up through my leg. I tried to cover up the agony with a very unconvincing smile. I had stepped on that poor old binder, apparently with a huge amount of force. It was a large binder with 2 ½ inch clasps and I had left it open. I knew it was there. Somehow I didn't see it. The force was so great that the binder ring actually bent and now I will have to get a new binder.
My foot hurt, and I knew that it was deeply bruised. But when I took my sock off, I saw something I didn’t expect to see. I saw a gaping, cavernous hole with blood swelling up slowly inside it. I hobbled to the bathroom to rinse my foot in the tub. When Mom saw the wound she thought I might need stitches. (She came to that conclusion after a brief moment of gagging). So we bandaged up the wound, and Mom drove my injured self to the urgent care center and we waited. It took a while for the doctor to see me. Meanwhile, I was suffering.
I am not a dramatic person. Other people in my family are, but not me. However, when in pain, I guess I am. While I waited in the room of the urgent care center, I texted my best friends and told them what happened.
I was crying. A lot. One of my friends replied:
They gave me virtual hugs and support, which helped a little bit. I was still miserable and it seemed like forever for the doctor to arrive. My nerves were angrily reporting to me that a section of security detail had gone missing. My eyes began to deplete their backup storage of tears. Finally, the doctor came. Calmly, happily, and with the joy that is apparent in her love for her work, she cleaned my wound and snipped it up so that it could heal. It stung a little. My foot began to throb like a tired army not wanting to fight any longer. But what was hurt more than my confused nerves and ripped up skin cells, was my pride.
Yes, I was being dramatic for once in my life. I admit it. And yes, I meant leg, not led. But obviously spelling errors were not a priority then. No, I do not know a Mr. who hurt his leg. I was being sarcastic because the way I hurt myself was pathetic, for I really should have seen that binder that rested on the floor. R.I.P. binder. Sorry I didn’t see you there.
It wasn’t all bad. I got plenty of virtual hugs and support from my friends, which was nice, and my mother’s laughing till she cried about the whole situation helped a little bit. She was laughing because earlier that morning we were watching cartoons, The Flintstones, and she thought it was ironic that the episode we watched featured Fred being “off” and going through a bout of clumsiness. Yes, my mother was laughing with tears. Because it was funny. And later, I laughed too. Why? My foot hurt, but I didn't cry because of the pain. I cried because of the shock. The shock because the situation was all too comedic, all too relatable to the Flintstone episode we watched earlier this morning.
You see … Two months ago I accidentally knocked over a porcelain trinket box of my mother’s and it broke.. A few weeks later, I knocked over and broke two plastic hair product bottles so the product leaked. Three weeks ago I dropped my pricey drink, spilling over half of it, and the day after that I slipped and fell and skinned (only slightly) my knee. And now this. The climax of it all!
My coordination and sense of perception have been shot. Somewhere I have completely blown a fuse. Welcome to the later stage of growing: the coordination and balance malfunction bit. So yes, I laughed at the irony of the Flintstones, too. I just hope that if this WAS the climax, then next is the resolution, and there will be no more breaking things or getting hurt. I am praying that that is the case.
It is funny now that I look back on it. I mean, seriously. I am the healthy, never-gets-hurt child in the family. Everyone else; they’re the ones accidentally dropping things on their toes, twisting their ankles and backs, chopping the tips of their fingers off, etc. My no-hurt record made me unique. But now…my life is becoming quite eventful, too, I realize.
