The good news: I didn’t break my toe.
I sat in the x-ray waiting area as the technician finished what she was doing. When she finally turned to me and smiled, I gave her my name and she led me back to the x-ray room, a stark, white and grey space with a counter for equipment and a hard bed, which I was to lie on while the bone pictures were taken.
“What did you do?” she asked.
I explained about the couch, how I didn’t turn on the light when I got home and ran straight into my mother’s blue couch. Then I signed a piece of paper that assured everyone involved that I was not pregnant and took my place on the sterile bed. I was unconcerned until the event was over, when I saw the blue lead apron hanging on the wall, and the thick partition that separated the technician from the radiation. X-ray machines are dangerous things to keep in a clinic.
After it was done, I was lead back to the examination room. I am usually a fast walker, but I struggled to keep up with the nurse as I hobbled down the hall. I suppose I should have used the crutches in the attic, but I hate crutches. They make me feel conspicuous, more so than limping around while wearing one shoe. I sat in a plastic chair and was told that the doctor would see me in a moment.
Surprisingly, it was only a moment before my general practitioner rapped on the door and entered. She is a pleasant woman with a strong South American accent and stronger maternal instincts. After a few pleasantries, she gave me the good news. “I don’t think it’s broken; just dislocated. My husband is a podiatrist, and I’m sending the x-rays to him, for his opinion.” She examined my actual foot, just to make sure, then taped it up and gave me further instructions and the promise of a prescription (anti-inflammatory, for the pain and swelling).
Now I sit at my desk, my swollen foot elevated, the rest of me restless–it is my right foot; I cannot drive–and I am thankful it was not a break.