It all started like any other Saturday. I
I was scheduled to take pictures of two little boys that morning who were one month and two years old. I'm usually on the floor or ground while shooting so I need comfy clothes. I pick some jean capris and layer a couple of shirts. My footwear of choice are some cute brown flip-flops that I had purchased on Thursday.
(Note: I rarely ever wear flip-flops, y'all. Ever since my experience with some unpleasant Plantar Fasciitis, I just don't wear them. Veeery unlike me to wear these to shoot pictures in.)
(Just in case you didn't catch it in the last parenthetical paragraph above .... there was some foreshadowing going on up there. Read it again if you must.)
I was already running behind and I knew it. I always run behind. I do believe it's a spiritual gift of mine. If not a gift, then a curse. All I know is that I'm proficient at it.
Because Charlotte is now crawling (NOW CRAWLING, Y'ALL!! OH, WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?!) I couldn't bring her with me. In hindsight, this was probably a very good thing. I had to nurse her right before I left so she wouldn't need to eat while I was away. Charlotte, who is a Power Nurser Extraordinaire, decided my breast milk was like a fine wine that morning and apparently needed to savor the moment, rolling the flavors around on her tongue a little. Or something like that.
By the time I got out the door I was running a good 15 minutes behind schedule. I was going to be late arriving and I was not happy about it. Even though I wasn't happy about it, I REALLY needed some caffeine and decided that a quick roll through a drive through for a Coke was not only permissible in this situation, but totally acceptable and necessary. I needed to be on my game and quick jolt of sugar and caffeine was going to do that for me. You go, girl.
I get to their house, 15 minutes late, grab my camera bag and one of my baskets and walk to the door. We get the usual greetings out of the way and then I proceed to make my way back out to Phil the Suburban to retrieve the other "props" I use in pictures. But before I walk out the door, the mom says to me, "do you need any help?".
Now y'all. These words will haunt me until my dying day. If I had just said yes (YES!), things could have turned out SO differently.
I walk out to Phil, open the back doors, grab my last basket that's filled with different fabrics, my lamb's skin, etc.., close the door and begin to step up onto the curb when Lo and Behold...
I got tangled up in them dang flip-flops!!
The next thing that happened plays out like some sort of slow motion scene from a movie. I knew what was coming. I knew it. I just couldn't do a single, cotton pickin' thing about it!! My ankle twisted, I felt excruciating pain and I started going down. My hands were full and I knew my fanny was gonna hit the pavement.
In my head I'm yelling (in that deep slow motion voice), "NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!". My rear hit the pavement (I'm fairly certain I may have bounced a little) and the basket, along with its contents went flying everywhere.
I laid there amidst the carnage of leaves, leftover lawnmower grass and various quality fabrics and thought to myself 3 things:
1. $#%@#, my ankle HURTS!! ( Just tryin' to keep it real.. I love Jesus, but sometimes I swear a little.)
2. Please Lord, don't let anybody have just seen that!
3. Wow! This one's goin' on the blog.
I sat up and began brushing the leaves and grass of off me and my fabrics. The searing pain in my ankle was unbelievable! But I thought to myself, "Girl, you gotta go take some pictures". I stood up, gathered up my basket and proceeded to
Pride cometh before the fall, y'all. Except mine came after.
And with all the dignity I could muster, I took pictures of those boys for over an hour. Mind you, I didn't get up off of the floor one, single time. At one point though, I swallowed my pride and told her what happened. Mostly because I kept scooting all over the floor like some crazed dog with "itchy rear issues" and I didn't want her to think that I was lazy. Or weird. Or itchy. She brought me a bag of ice for my ankle and I was very thankful for the brief time it stayed there.
Then her two year old started eating it. And that was the end of the ice.
At the end of our time I was ever so thankful that her husband came and offered to carry some things out for me because when I stood on my foot I thought I would surely die. Very slowly I managed to limp out of that house and down the driveway. I felt certain that I didn't do a very good job on the pictures because of the pain I was in and I was just hoppin' mad that the whole unfortunate incident had even happened.
When I finally got in the truck and pulled away, I realized that I couldn't even hit the brake with my right foot. I called Monk, told him to get Charlie ready, I'd be there in 20 minutes so we could go to my doctor's after hours clinic. My foot, ankle, leg and pride were throbbing.
By the time we arrived at the doctor's office I couldn't walk at all. Monk had to go in and get me a wheelchair. Our time in there was rather uneventful except for me wanting to slap the x-ray technician senseless. The unnatural positions she wanted me to put my foot and ankle in were just plain uncalled for! Honestly, I was a little surprised when the doctor told me he thought it was fractured. I expected a bad sprain, but not a break.
He sent me home in an air cast, which frankly is nothing more than two pieces of plastic with velcro around them, and told me to stay off of it for several days and I would be contacted by my normal doctor on Monday. A husband and five children at home and I'm told to stay off of my foot for several days. Nice.
Well. I was contacted today and it is definitely broken. I have an appointment on Thursday (THURSDAY!!!) to see how it looks and if they're going to give me a boot or a cast. They told me to stay off of it until then. Do these people not realize I have a family?? And I honestly believe my butt will be petrified by then! In the meantime, I'm being waited on hand and foot. Sort of. I'm mostly sitting and complaining that my hiney hurts. And my ankle.
Out of utter depression, I ate an entire IKEA chocolate bar by myself yesterday. I figure by Thursday I'll either be the size of Shamu or in a diabetic coma. Forget the pain meds, I self-medicate with chocolate. And Fritos. And Salt 'n Vinegar Almonds (my new favorite). You know....all those low fat food items.
And since a post is rarely ever complete without a picture .... here is a peek at the pics I took on Saturday. With a broken ankle. In case you forgot.