As you well know, Joe Boxer likes to chew. Everything. Including my shoes. In order to keep him away from beds and chairs and shoes and focused on actual toys for dogs I purchased a few when I ordered the dog food online. Toys that Amazon reviews said were good for chewing dogs. Sturdy toys that looked like they might kill a few hours before becoming a pile of rubber to be vacuumed or picked out of poop.
Toys that apparently, according to Husband, look like large sex toys.
And now, I cannot see them as anything else.
Which I suppose is a good thing because the dogs are a bit terrifying to me right now and a 60lb boxer coming at me with one of these dangling out of his stupid mouth can’t help but make me smile.
And smiling will ease the tension that drives right up my spine every time I get up on my three “legs” and the four-legged dumbasses start running about me because their first attempt at killing me failed. And there’s nothing like a dumbass dog chewing on a sex toy to make me smile.
I’m off the Oxy, I promise.
This is my brain off drugs.
I’ve been trying to write this for the past month but the words, or rather the images have been hard to pin down. I’m sure it’s my brain protecting me from the trauma, however late it might be. All I know is it’s been one month and I really need to deal with the reality of my life now in order to move on. Sort of getting back on the horse – if the horse was a 60lb Boxer and 70lb Lab running at me at 30mph… So here goes, what I think happened June 9th at approximately 3pm.
It was hot. Not humid hot but oven hot and the dogs needed some time outside. Husband had a client downstairs so I took the three Dumbasses out the front door and played ball for a bit with Pepper the Wannabe Cat while Joe Boxer and Tigger the Dog wrestled. I had grand plans for fixing my sludgy water pond over the weekend and decided to walk down to the patio and have another look at the mess that looked nothing like the Pintrest project I’d followed. As I walked down the driveway, Pepper the Wannabe Cat ran in front of me chasing the Frisbee. I heard Tigger the Dog and Joe Boxer coming up behind me and moved myself closer to the wall leaving the majority of the driveway to them. But they chose the foot between wall and me as a throughway.
Near as I can figure, Tigger the Dog hit me full speed in the back of my left knee and Joe Boxer hit me with his big ass head directly on the back of the right ankle. I heard and felt a loud “SNAP” and cried out as my foot continued it’s way down to the ground. As stepped, the inside of my ankle went over, bending in an unnatural angle, scraping my anklebone on the driveway and "CRACK!" A second break. Screaming now, I stood, stumbled, and with my brain and body not in sync yet, stepped down with the twice broken ankle and "CRACK!" This time, the pain and momentum took me down and I fell down scream cussing. Loudly.
When the reality of the situation sunk in, I switched from cussing and started yelling for Husband. Like sore throat screaming his name. But Husband was inside with the client and so couldn't hear me shouting. And we live on 1.5 acres in a neighborhood where everyone has about 1.5 acres so my cussing and yelling and crying was heard by no one. Except the dogs, who gathered around me, trying to figure out what kind of game I was playing. Tigger the Dog even brought me a Frisbee, which was not in the least helpful.
My screaming having resulted in zero response, I hoisted my right leg up on my left knee and I butt scooted myself slowly down the hill to the garage where I ineffectively threw my sandals at door, still screaming Husband’s name. No use. Husband built his studio to be completely sound proof and Husband does good work. Husband couldn't hear me. The neighbors couldn’t hear me. The dogs could hear me but were useless. More scream cussing ensued, peppered with some wailing and moments of bubbling tears. Pepper the Wannabe Cat brought me one of my sandals. Still not helpful. Finally, though a burst of pain, I remembered I had my slipped my phone in my back pocket just before I came outside so I didn’t miss a call from my friend in California. And miraculously, despite I being knocked into by the dogs, falling down and hauling myself down 20 feet down a driveway, my phone was intact. Small wonder. I pulled my phone and called Husband.
Who didn’t answer.
BLUBBER WHIMPER MOAN SCREAM WAVES OF PAIN.
What now? I deep breathed myself into calling his client, hunting through my Facebook messages to find her number, telling myself I’d be okay, crying as the phone rang.
She didn’t answer.
The panic tears started to overwhelm me. The dogs were starting to panic too. Not sure what set them off, my high-pitched wailing or my moments of silence as I tried to fight off the faint. My next option was to either buttscooch myself to the back door, lift myself up and ring the doorbell or head back to the front door and try the same thing. Totally sure I wouldn’t make it to either door before passing out, I tried a text to husband, ‘Help! Broke ankle. Need you.’ Still nothing. I dropped the phone to my belly and gave into the tears.
Then he called.
“I need you. Now!” I blubbered out. I heard him running as he asked me where I was. “Driveway. Near garage. My ankle is broken.” Husband came out. His client came out. I gave up being in charge and became a blubbery mess of feelings and pain. The rest went pretty quickly. Husband put the dogs in the house. His client tried to keep me calm as Husband got the car. I apologized a lot. I threw up. I cried. I moaned. I cussed. And finally, off to the ER we went.
The next few hours were a mess of tears and waves of pain and cussing. Mostly in the ER waiting room where we sat for far too long. When they finally brought me back, my ankle I learned was broken in three places, a Trimalleolar break. Not that the ER doc told me that. No, he just walked in and told me they would have to set it.
“Wait? It is broken?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. Three places.” Then he told me that the surgeon would determine if I would stay over night.
“Wait? I need surgery?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said, “It’s a very bad break.” ER doc isn’t getting any points for bedside manners, the numpty.
A night in a large splint, consult with the surgeon the following day, surgery the following week, two weeks in an even larger heavier splint, x-rays, stiches out, a fiberglass cast in green for four more weeks and that brings me today. I’ve got two-ish weeks left in the green monster and then hopefully the x-rays will say I was a good girl, didn’t put any weight on my foot and I get to graduate to a boot. Which really means I get to SHAVE because what is crawling out of the top of the green monster is not pretty. I’m actually contemplating braiding it, putting pretty bows on it and calling it a day.
So that’s the story of how right ankle became Broken Ankle, as best as I can remember it. Or rather, exactly as it replays in my head each night as I’m falling asleep, bone breaking sound effects and all.
I’m hoping the memory of each snap fades. I’m hoping I get to a place where I don’t flinch when I hear the dogs coming, bracing for the impact. I’m hoping one day I’ll dance. Heck I'm hoping one day I'll be able to walk outside by myself instead of looking at life pass by as my face is pressed up against the window.... But for now, I’m hoping my toes don’t explode when I keep my foot down too long.
Little goals are easier to achieve.
Monday, I spent far too long trying to balance a giant package of toilet paper on my head while using my crutches.
Tuesday, I fought husband to do laundry. Which was reckless because doing laundry requires me getting down to the basement on my butt one step at a time and then, after balancing on one leg while putting things in and pulling things out of the washer and dryer, ‘climbing’ up the stairs backward butt on one step at a time.
Trying to assert some control over my life right now has gotten downright stupid. I just went to get a garbage bag to put in the bin from over the fridge. I couldn’t quite reach so leaned left crutch against the fridge. Still couldn’t reach so stood on tip toe with my one good leg, leaned right crutch against the fridge and grabbed the garbage bag – just as the right crutch fell onto the water dispenser lever and proceeded to squirt water all over the crutch, fridge, me and the floor.
Being self-sufficient is overrated. And damp.
Wednesday, I got my 1000-pound splint removed, stitches out and a brand spanking new light bright green fiberglass cast.
Thursday, I went out for lunch with a friend sans Nurse Shrek. Then Thursday night, I went out for a late dinner and to hear a few friends play.
Friday, I cleaned off the dinning room table, vacuumed the house by pushing the vacuum in front of the knee scooter, did laundry by butt scooting myself down the stairs to the machines and pulled a large poop covered sandal strap out of Dumb Ass Joseph's ass.
Picture me, green cast sticking off the back of the knee scooter, wobbly left leg pushing, trying to hold myself steady as I try to grab hold of the wriggling 60pound dork that is Joe Boxer and grab whatever stringy mess hanging out his ass. Joe Boxer, who is by the way terrified of the scooter, was not cooperating in the least with my attempt to remove the protruding thing and proceeded to give a vigorous shake, flapping the poop covered strap about him. And me.
It took some maneuvering, and a hell of a lot of cussing, to get everything out and cleaned up. At which point I quit the day, took a long bath, plopped myself back in my invalid position on the couch. As much as I have been chomping at the bit to do something, anything but sit on the couch, I'm content to just sit with my broken ankle up for the foreseeable future. Why? Well, there's one strap left and I want no part in its removal.
Below are some more Broken Ankle pictures. Warning: some are gross. Not as gross as a poop covered strap flapping about Dumb Asses' butt, but pretty gross none the less.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me