I am the problem

My wife has had a rough couple of days. She’s worried, concerned, overworked, and exhausted.

And it’s all my fault.

Friday was bright and clear, cold and crisp. I woke up when I woke up, put on my robe, let the dogs out, found my indoor-outdoor slippers from L.L.Bean, opened the garage door, and stepped down the driveway to pick up the newspapers.

Three steps and I went ass over teakettle. I found myself flat on my back staring with surprise into the cloudless, clear blue sky. My right food was stuck underneath me and my robe was flapping around me. I could well have been arrested if a cop had driven by or a neighbor had complained.

I took a breath, pulled my foot out from under me, rolled over onto my stomach, crawled into the grass and stood up. I hobbled down to the end of the driveway and got the papers, hobbled back and spread salt so the ice, invisible as it was, would melt, and went inside to have a cuppa and read the Chicago Tribune. My wife came down from her shower, and I told her what happened. My ankle was sprained or twisted, I said. She looked at it, already beginning to bruise and swell, and got an old cane from the basement with the promise to wrap it later. I hobbled upstairs to take my shower, balancing precariously in the tub, got dressed, hobbled back downstairs, and she wrapped my ankle/foot with an Ace bandage.

We went to breakfast with our neighbors, a regular Friday morning ritual, and they suggested it might be broken. As long as I didn’t put weight on it, it didn’t really hurt and I pooh-poohed the idea. But Ann insisted we call our chiropractor buddy, who told us to come in immediately for X-rays. He took the pictures, developed them, showed us the four breaks and scheduled me for an appointment with an orthopod that afternoon.

I went in to the orthopod's office, got a cast – a NON-WALKING cast - and more X-rays to make sure the bone hadn’t shifted. The doctor and his staff couldn’t have been more accommodating, more pleasant. Ann wheeled me to the car and took me home.

Getting into the house from the garage, up one step, was close to being nightmarish because it was too high for me to hop, and I couldn’t find anything to grab on to. We finally got me inside, ensconced on the couch in the family room and Ann went to buy a pair of crutches.

I can get around fine on the crutches as long as I don’t try stairs. The first night I pushed myself up the three steps from the family room and couldn’t stand. I had to crawl to the stairs to the second floor, push myself up that filight, and figure out how to get on a chair so I could stand and eventually get to the bedroom. Not only was it not a pretty sight, it was totally exhausting. For Ann as well as for me.

Saturday carpenter friend Randy Oyster carried a bed from upstairs to the family room and I’m sleeping there, close to the television, a huge book case, the four-season sun porch where I eat my meals, a half bath, and the bed.

I don’t see me living like this for the next six weeks, but I’m finding stairs impossible. And not having a shower or washing my hair is going to drive me crazy – and chase away any potential visitors.

Ann is far more bummed out than I am. She lets the dogs in and out, fixes my meals, brings me a glass of water or milk when I need it. Milk to help bones knit, of course. I never drink milk otherwise. And does everything else she always does. She is pretty tired already. She needs to go to work just to get some rest and get me off her mind.

In the meantime, I appreciate any visitors, with or without their dogs, and I wouldn’t mid a burly nurse who could carry me upstairs and shower me once in a while, either.

So we’ll see how long I make it before I end up at the funny farm. One, I hope, all on one floor. I’ll keep you posted.

As always, feel free to comment below.