I, Invalid, Part One: Four Insults And An Injury

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"Tropical Depression" 
by Patti Liszkay
available it on Amazon:
https://www.amzn.com/1685131832

​I, INVALID, PART ONE: FOUR INSULTS AND AN INJURY

       While I can't pinpoint the exact moment when a web of micro-cracks (as the doctor described it) befell the bone on the top of my left foot, it's probably a pretty good bet that my stress-fractured foot is the result of a series of insults to said foot bone that ended in injury;
        Insult # 1:
      I'm guessing the initial insult began about a week earlier when I, who gave up gardening years ago in favor of other more sedentary time-consuming pursuits,  

...got a bee in my bonnet and decided that the garden that I had been neglecting for years needed an immediate landscaping intervention. Thus I spent the last few days in July and the first four days in August digging up plants, stomping on the edge of a shovel like the guy in the picture below,​

...except wearing old sneakers instead of work boots (at least for the first few days unitl I got a clue and started wearing my hiking boots) and sometimes, if the ground was extra-tough, hopping on the edge of the shovel with both feet. Then I'd haul the heavy shovelsful of dirt and plant across the yard from an old spot to a new spot. 
       At one point, while I was huffing and puffing a 2 cubic foot bag of mulch from the trunk of my car around to the the backyard, the thought occurred to me that, considering my age and the fact that I wasn't physically accustomed to this kind of labor, maybe all this intense shoveling and schlepping wasn't the best idea. But the thought passed.
         
​          Insult #2:
       After all the heavy-duty digging that went on up until Friday, the fourth day of August,  the second insult, I'm thinking, must been on Saturday, the fifth day of August, when I spent all afternoon walking around the Ohio State Fair with my daughter's family, who'd arrived the evening before from Los Angeles (see post from 8/15/2023, www.ailantha.com/blog/back-to-the-fair).

     Insult #3
     I expect insult #3 must have been the sixth day of August, when, after the insults inflicted on the fourth and fifth days of August, I was on my feet from morning until night preparing, serving, and cleaning up a big family party (see post from 8/17/2023, https://www.ailantha.com/blog/another-day-another-celebration).

       
​            Insult #3 ½ 
        On Monday, the seventh of August, I took my grand daughters out for some back-to-school clothes shopping.

     But as we weren't out for too long, I count that outing as only half an insult.
     But even so, I think by then the damage was already done. After we'd made our purchases I suggested to the girls that we go out for lunch. They, however, both agreed that they'd rather have the food at my house (aka party left-overs from the day before). I recall feeling a waft of relief that we could go straight home, as my foot was already hurting.
    Though I spent a considerable amount of time off my feet that afternoon, I found myself wondering why the rest wasn't helping my foot. 
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        Insult #4
       The next day was Tuesday, August 8, the day of the Ohio State Issue 1 election. Here's something I didn't share in my post about working the polls that day (see post from 8/10/2023: https://www.ailantha.com/blog/i-machine-judge​): My left foot was killing me all day long. I started working at my polling site at 5:30 am. By 7:30 am I thought I'd never make it through the day, which ended at 8:30 pm. And though as a machine judge I was on my feet and in a state of low grade misery almost the whole of the fifteen hours, somehow I did make it. Funny how you can find the resources to do what needs to be done. But if the last straw hadn't already been dropped on my foot the day before, this would have been it.
      The following day I woke up early, not having been able to sleep very well, and looked at my hurting foot, the top of which  was now swollen and reddish. I called my podiatrist's office. The receptionist, though sympathetic, informed me that the doctor was working only that morning then he was leaving straight away on vacation, and that he was already triple booked for the morning. I don't think I actually started crying, but I must have sounded close enough. 
          "If you can get right over we'll get you in," the wonderful receptionist said. I assured her I'd be over in a flash. And I was.
         I was as grateful as I've ever been to anyone as I was the podiatrist and his kind staff, who squeezed me in ahead of the triple-booked rush.  
         The doctor informed me that I had a stress fracture, outfitted me in a moonboot-esque fracture walking boot,          

​...with the admonition to nonetheless stay off the foot to keep the small cracks from turning into a big honking crack. (He didn't actually say "honking," but gestured with his hands to suggest that the ensuing crack would be a big honking one). He advised me to  walk on it only the absolute minimum as required until my next appointment in three weeks, and likewise suggested that I acquire a knee scooter so as to assure that I stay off the foot.
       I came home and put my moonbooted foot up. The relief was exquisite. 
      And so has gone life for the past ten days, me sitting around in my boot with my foot up, whiling away the time. The agenda will be more of the same for the immediate future. 
       To be continued...