OOPS!…I DID IT AGAIN. The title of Britney Spears’ 2000 hit fits the latest verse in my life song. Nothing else about the song relates, only the title.
Late Wednesday afternoon, while skirting a tower fan partially blocking my home office doorway, I stubbed my right little toe on the door frame. Hard. Like I may have heard a crack hard. Instant pain shot through my toe as a censored version of “Oops!…I did it again” shot from my mouth.
I knew this was not good. I hobbled my way toward the kitchen where Randy was preparing supper. And, yes, I still call the evening meal supper. “I think we have to go to the clinic,” I said, explaining why. I don’t recall Randy’s reaction other than informing me he was half-way into cooking our meal so the urgent care visit would need to wait. One plate of broiled salmon, seasoned potatoes and orange slices later, we were heading for the clinic.
But not before I asked Randy to search the back of our bedroom closet for a walking shoe. You see, almost exactly two years ago, I jammed my left little toe into the baseboard corner of our kitchen peninsula. That time I severely bruised my little toe. “Oops!…I did it again.” Except with the right foot.
Upon arriving at the clinic, I limped inside, waited in line to register and then sat down in the waiting area. It was 6:05 pm. I propped my injured foot atop a round coffee table to keep it elevated. I worked a crossword puzzle. A text message alerted me that I was seventh in line. I noted the worn out furniture, the stale air, daylight shifting into evening.
I am not good at waiting. Multiple texts were not encouraging. There were “unexpected delays,” the apologetic messages read. My appointment time shifted from 7:10 to 7:20 to 7:50. I was not happy.
My eldest daughter texted at 7:18 pm. “How’s your toe?”
“Still waiting at the clinic. I should have stayed home,” I replied. “Too many coughing people here. Toe hurts & starting to turn purple.”
Shortly thereafter, a nurse called my name. Finally. I was getting my vitals taken, getting quizzed about my injury and on my way to answers. That meant a trip upstairs to x-ray. I accepted a wheelchair ride. Much quicker and less painful than limping along. Three x-rays later and I was back in my room awaiting an official diagnosis.
This time around I did not have a badly-bruised little toe, but rather a fractured one. Officially: There is an undisplaced fracture present along the distal aspect of the 5th proximal phalanx. Undisplaced is better than displaced. That diagnosis was confirmed on Thursday by a podiatrist, whom I will see in four weeks for more x-rays and a healing check. In the meantime, I’ll wear that unattractive sandal-like shoe with the rigid bottom, tape my little toe to its neighboring toe, ice, elevate and pop OTC meds as needed.
A broken toe is certainly not a major injury when the fracture is simply a crack not requiring surgery. I’ve broken a shoulder and shattered a wrist (that requiring a surgical implant). There really is no comparison. This toe break is more of a tolerable inconvenience.
Yet…the timing is bad. Is any time ever good to break a bone? Probably not. But my eldest and I are co-hosting a baby shower for my second daughter this weekend. A niece is getting married in eight days and that includes a wedding dance. I have things to do. Enter Randy. I made a list of jobs for him to do, work I would typically handle such as carting laundry up and down the basement stairs. If I could read his thoughts, they are likely an updated version of Britney Spears’ song, rewritten as “Oops!…here we go again.”
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
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