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This little piggy went to the ER...
Nov. 2nd, 2008 02:46 pmFeldDad and I share a peculiar pinky toe, which leans over its buddy and never actually touches the ground. In concert with a family tendency to very sturdy skeletons, short of a car crash I never expected to break a bone. Much less my Congenitally Vestigial Toe.
Apparently if you miscalculate a doorway and kick a wall hard enough, and that wall is fifty-year-old wet plaster and ceramic tile, the wall will handily win over the Vestigial Toe.
Points when I should have known I'd fucked up:
T minues zero: when a distinct part of the sensation was a wet crack like breaking into a crab claw.
T plus one minute: after hopping into the Cmonkey's room, gripping her bed and trying not to swear--and having to breathe before overcoming the urge and unleashing a resounding "FUCK!" gasp, "Oh, fucking fuck!"
To her credit, Cmonkey simply asked from her seat on the little potty, "You hurt your leg? Let me kiss it."
T plus five minutes: crouching to pull up Cmonkey's pants, the toe burned. I've never had an impact injury burn before, much less in a second-degree way.
Then we continued to swim class, which is normally a family proposition, but Mr. F had to work so we went solo. This is the depth of my zombiesque stoicism: driving a toddler to swim class, wrangling us into suits, swimming, wrangling us into dry clothes and driving back with only a pause to take some ibuprofen because man, that toe still really hurt.
T plus three hours: Mr. F transplanted Cmonkey from her carseat, tucked her in for a nap, and I'd only made it ten feet up the driveway. I'm summarily sent to the couch with an icepack and buddy-taped toes.
T plus five hours: Vestigial Toe now looks like it's been crossed with a rainbow and a balloon animal. I'm given the choice whether to go to the ER. After ten minutes of deliberation, Mr. F withdraws the question and starts packing for the wait involved in "this is so not an emergency, but it also can't wait two days for office hours".
T plus seven hours: radiologist informs me that congenitally crooked toe's buddy is also crooked in a complementary way. I must tell FeldDad.
T plus nine hours: Random dude in black scrubs comes by and says, "So it looks like it's broken."
Mistaking his offhand diagnosis for introductory small talk, I reply, "Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"
"No, on the x-ray. It's subtle, but it's fractured right there." Black Scubs Dude--apparently a newbie doctor who's watched too much House to feel my injury merits my knowing his name--deigns (dares!) to trace a finger across the base of Vestigial Toe. I only know his name now because the name on my scrip for Happy Meds isn't the other doctor who talked to me (his BOSS, who INTRODUCED HIMSELF AND SHOOK MY HAND BEFORE FEELING UP MY OUCHIE THANKS EVER SO FUCKING MUCH BLACK SCRUBS JACKHOLE).
At least he asked me what my favorite flavor of painkiller was, because if they'd tried passing off any lameass Vicodin I'd've humped back into the building and skullfucked him with a crutch.
Oh, hey, guess what's worn off?
ETA:
So they gave me my x-rays on a cd, and the dude in black scrubs was right, subtle is a nice word for "seriously, that's it?". I have to say, if this much ouch can come out of a crack that tiny, my appalled sympathies go out to anyone who's ever truly broken anything. Like in actual pieces. Or through the skin. Or a bone bigger than a frickin' piece of gum to begin with:
(I bumped up the contrast and added notes, cropping out my Bruce Wayne id. So not Batman!)
Apparently if you miscalculate a doorway and kick a wall hard enough, and that wall is fifty-year-old wet plaster and ceramic tile, the wall will handily win over the Vestigial Toe.
Points when I should have known I'd fucked up:
T minues zero: when a distinct part of the sensation was a wet crack like breaking into a crab claw.
T plus one minute: after hopping into the Cmonkey's room, gripping her bed and trying not to swear--and having to breathe before overcoming the urge and unleashing a resounding "FUCK!" gasp, "Oh, fucking fuck!"
To her credit, Cmonkey simply asked from her seat on the little potty, "You hurt your leg? Let me kiss it."
T plus five minutes: crouching to pull up Cmonkey's pants, the toe burned. I've never had an impact injury burn before, much less in a second-degree way.
Then we continued to swim class, which is normally a family proposition, but Mr. F had to work so we went solo. This is the depth of my zombiesque stoicism: driving a toddler to swim class, wrangling us into suits, swimming, wrangling us into dry clothes and driving back with only a pause to take some ibuprofen because man, that toe still really hurt.
T plus three hours: Mr. F transplanted Cmonkey from her carseat, tucked her in for a nap, and I'd only made it ten feet up the driveway. I'm summarily sent to the couch with an icepack and buddy-taped toes.
T plus five hours: Vestigial Toe now looks like it's been crossed with a rainbow and a balloon animal. I'm given the choice whether to go to the ER. After ten minutes of deliberation, Mr. F withdraws the question and starts packing for the wait involved in "this is so not an emergency, but it also can't wait two days for office hours".
T plus seven hours: radiologist informs me that congenitally crooked toe's buddy is also crooked in a complementary way. I must tell FeldDad.
T plus nine hours: Random dude in black scrubs comes by and says, "So it looks like it's broken."
Mistaking his offhand diagnosis for introductory small talk, I reply, "Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"
"No, on the x-ray. It's subtle, but it's fractured right there." Black Scubs Dude--apparently a newbie doctor who's watched too much House to feel my injury merits my knowing his name--deigns (dares!) to trace a finger across the base of Vestigial Toe. I only know his name now because the name on my scrip for Happy Meds isn't the other doctor who talked to me (his BOSS, who INTRODUCED HIMSELF AND SHOOK MY HAND BEFORE FEELING UP MY OUCHIE THANKS EVER SO FUCKING MUCH BLACK SCRUBS JACKHOLE).
At least he asked me what my favorite flavor of painkiller was, because if they'd tried passing off any lameass Vicodin I'd've humped back into the building and skullfucked him with a crutch.
Oh, hey, guess what's worn off?
ETA:
So they gave me my x-rays on a cd, and the dude in black scrubs was right, subtle is a nice word for "seriously, that's it?". I have to say, if this much ouch can come out of a crack that tiny, my appalled sympathies go out to anyone who's ever truly broken anything. Like in actual pieces. Or through the skin. Or a bone bigger than a frickin' piece of gum to begin with:
(I bumped up the contrast and added notes, cropping out my Bruce Wayne id. So not Batman!)
