I’m Not So Good with the Crutches

I’m Not So Good with the Crutches

Crutches are more difficult to use than you would think. I mean, sure, two sticks ought to be a basic principle, but tennis involves pretty basic principles, too. And I couldn’t get the ball over the net if my life depended on it. And tennis, I understand, involves a lot less throbbing and Vicodin than I am currently experiencing.

(I bet you want to know what happened, don’t you? It’s a good story. Except for a lot of really dumb reasons, I can’t discuss on the internet how my boo-boo came to be. I KNOW. Seriously. I’m with you. I think it’s stupid, too.)

So we’re just going to discuss the aftermath, which in my case is not involving nearly enough pain killers. You see, when all the dust settled, I had a crushed toe. I don’t mean that metaphorically. I mean the bone in my toe is in many, many pieces.

Let’s all take a moment to imagine how that might feel.

Now multiply by 100.

Who knew there were that many nerves in your toe? How do they all fit? It’s like a clown car down there. Frankly, I’m starting to suspect I don’t have nerve endings anywhere else in my entire body. They’ve all gone to my big toe to live out their retirement. It’s like Florida.

But hey! The doctor gave me Vicodin. I’d never taken Vicodin before, but we’ve all heard good things, right? There’s not a movie starlet left alive not addicted to it and its pain killing cousins. And if it’s good enough for a celebutant, it’s good enough for me. Bring on the warm, fuzzy oblivion.

Fortunately, doctors are protecting us from such dangerous thinking.

I am absolutely certain this (holds up tiny prescription bottle) would be the perfect amount of controlled substance if I were, say, a large lab rat. A rodent with pudge would be well served by this quantity of pain killer. Although I understand such an animal can also be felled by a tablespoon of red dye no. 5. A full-grown human, such as myself, however is left biting wooden spoon handles and begging for death.

And yet, I anticipate with bated breath my next dose only to be horribly disappointed when I’m left sobbing and bitter following its failure – sort of like how we all feel about any movie starring Russell Crowe.

The ER doctor helpfully informed me that I could supplement with ibuprofen once in awhile. I resisted the urge to bend over and flash her my bare bottom while screaming, “Supplement this!” but only because moving hurt too much.

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