Rounding the corner of the bed in the dark. my step count was off and the result was the sound of a green bean snapping…kind of a joint pop/crack/crunch with a needle pricking sharp pain in my left foot that dulled to a throb about the beat of Mandisa’s latest song. My sleeping husband never felt the rock of the bed nor the sound of the brass bedpost ringing from the impact. He in fact did not hear the silent scream coming from my braincells nor see the tears squirt from my eyes against my glasses which were doing me no good whatsoever in the dark. To be honest, I was a little proud that scream didn’t make it to external.
The fact is, this was the third night in a row I had smashed the same foot in some way. The first time was on the vacuum cleaner sitting like a trap between my side of the bed and the bathroom. The second time in an effort to side step the vacuum, still sitting there, I allowed too much room and smashed into the chair. I laid in bed a bit longer this morning. I avoided looking at my foot which felt swollen and bent. I knew if I looked it would start to hurt more.
I’ve broken toes before. They actually break like potato chips at this stage in my life. I am careful with my feet. I wear socks and shoes and I try to avoid foot dangers. There isn’t much to be done for broken toes. I know this from the big bucks spent for the first two times. So now, I just bear with it, tape if necessary, and baby my poor foot. And, try not to smash it again any time soon.
As I laid in bed delaying the inevitable look at my foot which I imagined surely must be deep purple, I started to feel a bit old and feeble and really pitiful. What kind of person smashes their foot three nights in a row? What kind of person, who can normally with cat-like stealth, slip in and out of a dark room with no problem? I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. The throbbing got worse. Then Boomer who was warming the bed reached over and gave me a claw for I guessed disturbing his sleep. My yowl was audible this time. Boomer thumped down to the floor, but not before walking over the top of me which pulled the covers down hard onto my foot. It is well known cats can make themselves heavy and this morning Boomer made himself a whopping 60 pounds I am sure.
Bolting upright I reached for my glasses. In the dim morning light I looked down as I lifted my foot up for a better look. Okay so it wasn’t purple. It wasn’t even a little blue. But it is a bit swollen around the little toe. I felt my toes kind of tenderly and determined it’s the little toe and that the next two bend okay so are not broken despite feeling like they should be. And I can walk. In fact without a limp. So it’s not all that bad afterall. I felt a little silly for feeling so pitiful. I do bet it will be purple later but for now my purple socks will have to do. And it IS still throbbing.
The smell of coffee got me going toward the kitchen. I filled my biggest mug, treated myself to half and half this morning, then got the newspaper, my phones, and went to have a sit with my foot up in my morning spot. I opened the paper and on the cover with a full color picture is a story that gave me full blown embarassment with myself. I said a little prayer for forgiveness and a prayer for those who have way more than toe pain, and way more than throbbing to overcome.