Adventures and Reflections with Regard to Fibula Fractures

Because of a certain incident, I've had a lot of sitting time recently.  Which may not be good for someone such as I, with a brain that never seems to stop churning and has, what my husband refers to as, an overly active imagination that won't stop asking the what if question.  

So I thought I might try to capture some of my thoughts, impressions, stories, and gratitude in a post.  

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This incident further reinforces my idea that I really want to die with a good story.  No one wants to be in the afterlife, chatting with the other dead, and have to say, I died peacefully.  Bo-ring.  Well, the same could be said for breaking a bone.  Could I not have at least been rescuing orphans from a burning building?  Or racing toward a good cause?  Nope.  I fell.  I didn't trip over anything.  I didn't roll my ankle.  I literally just missed a step on the staircase.  I'm bored with my own experience.  Where was the adventure that preceded it?!  Break failure.

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I am incredibly humbled by all the help we have received.  We really, really needed it.  And we have had many hands working hard to fill our needs and keep tabs on us.  

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Even though they ask your birthdate at every step of the medical process, the woman who splinted my leg (and clarified my birthdate) asked how old I was.  And then refused to believe me.  The proof was literally in the medical record that she was holding.  And she just kept expressing astonishment.  I spent a great deal of time as she worked on me, reassuring her that, yes, I was indeed the age I said I was.  And that yes, I did indeed have four children.  And that yes, my oldest is twelve.  (And while I didn't give birth to him as he was adopted, yes he was born within the time frame of my marriage.)  

Someday I really wanted to tell people who persist in not believing me that I have four kids, and that the oldest is twelve, that I am really twenty-one years old.  Let's see if they tell me I look good for my age then.  

But deciding to pull that prank trigger while someone is painfully manipulating your leg into a splint was decidedly not the right time.  But someday I will do it.  Just to see how they react when I agree with them that I am not my real age.        

And yes, I will probably have to take a few stripes for that one in the afterlife.  But I think it will be worth it.  I mean, if they insist on disagreeing with a fact, then I am allowed to have a little fun, right?

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Whoever invented the rubber that goes on top of crutches is a genius.  Yes.  Crutches still chafe.  But, for Pete's sake, they are not the wooden sticks of yesteryear.  Ouch!  I am grateful for rubber padding.

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My own high opinion of myself has gone even higher.  I know.  I know.  You typically expect an egotistical statement like that from Husband or Three.  But today, you are getting it from me.  

But, we have had so much help - just to make it through - this week.  Makes me think that I (and all the other at-home moms) are really quite amazing.  And when Mom goes down, it takes many, many willing hands to keep the ship afloat.  Moms are incredible.  One might almost think God designed women to be incredibly amazing on purpose...

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I'm really grateful I broke my left leg.  I need my driving leg to survive.  Who knew that I cared more about one leg than the other?  But there it is.  I have favorites.

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I learned an important lesson.  When a hospital offers you a handicap placard because you broke your leg, take it, darn it!  I did not.  I have a fatal flaw in my personality where I think I can do anything I set my mind to.  So broken leg or not, I would be just fine, thank you very much.

Until an hour later.  When I was heading to the second pharmacy of the day to fill a (non-related but vital) prescription.  There were a hundred open spots near the pharmacy at the hospital.  They were all handicapped.  The closest regular spot?  Felt like a mile on crutches.  (But was really probably a quarter mile.)  To get there.  Then I had to go back.  If I was a cursing woman, I would have made sailors blush.  Instead I just said, "Fiddlesticks!" a lot and took many, many breaks.  Oh the stupidity of my fatal personality flaw!

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My sons are amazing.  They've helped bring stuff to me, move my crutches, pulled me to my feet, played with Baby, and a million other things.  I love them.

They've also introduced Baby to fruit snacks and chocolate coins.  And plied him with as many chocolate covered pretzels as he desired.  So...

But, I'm going to focus on the positive.  My sons are amazing.  They really are.  And we will deal with Baby's new fruit snack addiction at a later date.

  

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I am grateful to Studio C.  Because when your leg really hurts, it feels good to have a great laugh.  Or ten thousand.  We'll deal with my Studio C addiction at a later date.

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In the end, this has humbled me and taught me to have way more compassion for those around me with struggles.  Got that, God?  I've learned this lesson.  No need to repeat it ever, right?  Right?