I am now apparently allergic to penicillin. Taken it all my life, have one broken ankle, get very expensive ankle jewelry and now I'm allergic to penicillin.
And by allergic I mean turn into one horrible massive big itchy hive. And by horrible I mean hives in my ears. And hives on my scalp. And hives INSIDE the stupid big green cast that made the damn leg swell into an irritated inflamed mess and cause me to contemplate cutting the sucker off at the knee. After having scratched all the skin off the rest of my body, that is. And Pepper the Wannabe Cat is now a shivering growly mess whenever Tigger the Dog is near while Joe Boxer is still trying to figure out what the hell happened. My life right now is trying to monitor smelly dogs while stomping about on crutches - which isn't as glamorous as you might think. And this morning, while Husband was drying the dog dishes with a paper towel, I informed him that he just used a dishtowel to do that, he’d save on paper towels. He smiled a smug self-satisfied smile, and said, "I like my system. I’m in charge. I have all my legs." One. More. Week.
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We became members of Fight Club Friday night. I can talk about it because I wasn’t a willing participant. Frankly no one was a willing participant except the instigator, Tigger the Dog, but since we’re all part of the fight, I’ll do my best to blather out about the war.
I was on the couch, bright green covered leg elevated, minding my own business perusing the Internet for something new while Husband took the dogs out front for the post dinner pee. All was well as he came back in and I heard the chaos of the four-legged beasts milling about the entryway. And then the growling and shouting began. A sudden growl and yip and Husband started shouting at Tigger the Dog. There was cussing and growling and mayhem. I tried to see what was going on from the couch but only got glimpses of elbows and dog parts as the cussing got worse. I pulled myself up off the couch, flung the stool that was doubling as my table onto the couch, fumbled my crutches up off the floor and awkwardly shoved them under my armpits and stomped my way to the fight. Tigger the Dog had Pepper by the neck and was shaking her like a rag doll. Pepper, obviously terrified, was doing her best to get free. Husband was shouting and trying to pull Tigger off Pepper. I stumbled my three-legged self into the skirmish and immediately realized it was a mistake. In the least graceful way, I lowered/threw/splayed myself on the floor and tried to get Pepper out of Tigger’s jaw while keeping Broken Ankle out of the fray. It was at this point I realized that Tigger had shook Pepper so hard, shit flew out of her and around the room. And I was not sure I wasn’t sitting it. The fight continued and I had to put my possible shit covered ass aside. By this point, Husband, still shouting, had Tigger up by her hind legs and was pulling. I grabbed Tigger’s jaw and tried to pry it open. Pepper, not understanding I was on her side, bit my thumb. It was about two minutes of pulling and shouting and snarling and shaking and yapping before I finally got the jaw open and Pepper pulled free and Husband had wrestled Tigger to her crate and pinned her in. Joe Boxer, having watched the fight in confusion, came over to check Pepper out. Pepper was having none of that and attempted to crawl up my body and into my shirt leaving a trail of blood. Holes in her forehead and two large holes in her neck gushed. Husband crated Joe and I got on the phone for the Vet. It was at this point that he realized his hand was totally swollen and I realized that my thumb was bleeding and we both realized we were shaking. Pepper was wrapped up in a towel for the trip to the emergency vet and, while I waited for Husband to bring the car around, I wiped shit off my butt and the floor. When we got home later that night, hundreds of dollars poorer with a shaved and stoned Pepper in tow, we were too tired to bother going to the ER for our own injuries. I soaked the heck out of the thumb and Husband iced his now Stay Puff Marshmallow sized hand as we sat on the couch in a stupor. We’d be fine, we thought. Wrong. An ER visit to prevent a possible infection in the thumb bite that could settle in my new ankle jewelry and rot off my leg, a bad hives reaction to medication, another ER visit for me and for one for Husband and his possible broken hand, another very bad hives episode and we’re still dealing with the repercussions of Fight Club. Pepper is now understandably terrified of Tigger the Dog. Tigger the Dog is now an unknown entity in our once happy home. And Joe Boxer is still an idiot. What happens now, who knows? We’ve a call into the Vet for her opinion on the battle. I’ve got a call into my Doc for her opinion on the hives. Husband has lots of opinions and I don’t like any of them. Joe Boxer has no opinions because he’s dumb as a box of rocks. Right now, the dumb box of rocks is my favorite and I'm still itching. This not at all boring life we're leading is expensive and exhausting. Anybody want a dog? I cried yesterday for the first time since I felt the snap of my anklebones. I ugly cry-blubbered louder and harder than I did in the ER waiting room when they took in the third person that came in after me leaving me and my ever-swelling ankle dangling off the edge of the wheelchair. I cried and I cried and I cried because I have a broken leg and I can’t do anything quickly or easily or right. It wasn’t pretty. But nothing about these last 5 weeks have been pretty.
It started with the dog food. I’ve sort of gotten a routine going with the feeding of the dogs using the scooter; food and a little water into the bowls, dogs in the crate waiting, bowls down on each dog ‘table’ and then scoot myself out of the way as they charge. But yesterday, I got cocky. I let the dogs outside and filled the dishes while they were outside. I got Joe and Pepper’s food down without an issue but as I was scooting toward Tigger’s ‘table’, the scooter wheel caught the rug and the water saturated food spilled out of the dish and, in agonizing slow motion, scattered all over the white carpet in the dinning room. I stood there on one leg; right knee balanced on the scooter, bowl dangling from my hand just flummoxed, no clue what to do next. I could get down off my wheeled leg and scoop the food up but the odds of my getting back up without using Broken Ankle to raise myself were not good. I could put more food in Tigger’s bowl and let them all fight over the food on the floor or I could scoot my cussing self over to the door with the other dogs bowls, let Tigger eat her food off the floor and feed Joe and Pepper outside. I went with that last choice, having not thought through the major issue – getting a 70lb dog to go where I tell her to when food is involved. The three dogs were at the front door, waiting. I tried to open the door and have Tigger come in but Joe wiggled his body around the door, squeezed by her and into the house followed by Pepper. With my knee precariously balanced, I bent down and tried to feed them before letting Tigger in to eat in the other room. Tigger did not understand my plan. Pushing past the slightly open door, she slammed into my leg as she leapt over the scooter to get to Joe’s food. Joe, not being the smartest of dogs, stepped back and let Tigger have her way with his food. Pepper ignored the commotion and kept eating. “DAMNIT!” I yelled and tried to pull Tigger off the food, ripping a nail. Frustrated with the non-budging growling dog, I changed plans and tried taking Joe to the dining room for a breakfast buffet off the floor. But Joe, who will eat anything, and I mean absolutely ANYTHING, totally refused to eat his breakfast off the floor. At this point I snapped. Five weeks of no control over what I can do and when I can do it and I just lost it. At the top of my rather considerable lungs I cussed. “FUCKING DOGS!” I screamed. “FUCK!!! I HATE THIS FUCKING LEG!!!” And promptly burst into a thoroughly ugly cry. My, um… minor fit woke Husband, who came in to see what all the fuss was about, took one look at me sniveling and set about fixing things. While Husband put a full Tigger into her crate and coxed Joe to eat every piece of dog food off the once white carpet, I sat on the scooter stool, stupid green cast hovering off the carpet per doctor’s orders to not let it “bear weight” blubbering. It was not my proudest moment. Nope, I was so pitiful; Husband took me out to breakfast AND then for a jaunt on the not-so-zippy scooters at Target. It doesn’t take much to put a smile on my face these days. Better yet, Husband was good enough to not mention my morning temper tantrum. The embarrassment was fading and actually liked the dogs again. Then, last night as I was getting ready for bed, Husband asked me what ringtone he should set his morning alarm with; “FUCKING DOGS!” or “FUCK! I HATE THIS FUCKING LEG!!!” 49 days since break. 13 days till cast off (I hope) and dignity is restored. 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. |
AuthorMy 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 Archives
April 2019
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