Saturday, December 5, 2009

I Haven't Got Time For the Pain

Just over a month ago, I rounded up all the kids I could find that share my gene pool and curious hairline. I bathed them, coiffed them and dressed them in quasi-coordinated clothing culled from the backs of closets, the clearance racks and GapKids (I was desperate). We enjoyed a merry jaunt to my in-laws' home where the only sounds in the MomMobile were the dulcet tones of children bickering over the proper pronunciation of carmel/caramel, accompanied by my desperate pleas that they not wrinkle their clothes, take off their shoes or touch anyone's hair, and occasional shrieks from the little bald one that just discovered volume. We arrived at the in-laws' and began the process of taking family portraits in their lovely garden. We took off our shoes because we're hip and oh-so-casual. Christian and Holly of Prints Charming Photography were veritable fountains of patience and enthusiasm, and things were progressing nicely in the fading light of a warm, early November evening.

While moseying, as we hip/casual types are inclined to do, from an open grassy spot to the wooden deck I happened to step on an exposed tree root. I heard and felt a POP and then I saw little cartoon birdies. And then I took a deep breath and kept right on posin' and smilin' and moving a certain 13-year-olds bangs out of her eyes (what is WITH that?). We finished the portrait session, gathered our stuff and our progeny, and went to our FAVORITE pizza place for dinner to celebrate all of the Me Not Killing One Of The Kids As A Warning To The Others. After dinner (which was, to coin a phrase, a little slice of pure heaven on a Chicago-style crust), I stood up. Then I sat down. The birdies were back, and they had brought stars. The hot burning searing throbbing aching poking pain in my right foot made me wonder if I hadn't pulled a little somethin' when I stepped on that silly little tree root.

We deposited the kids at home, charged the older girls with getting the younger kids ready for bed and decided that nothing sounded nicer than a little visit to our friendly neighborhood after-hours clinic. The x-ray showed no broken bones, so I was instructed to see a podiatrist. The next day, Dr. Walker (not kidding) confirmed the no broken bones, and said helpfully that "it would be better if you had broken something." He gave me a lovely black boot and offered me a prescription for pain relief, which I declined (I later recanted and he hooked me up). He wrote orders for me to have ultrasound therapy and to told me to make an appointment to see him in 3 weeks.

Blah, blah, blah, time passes, and here we are, 4 1/2 weeks and a very uncomfortable MRI (birdies!) later, I've been diagnosed with "a very stubborn tendonitis" (I've always been an over achiever) and a bone bruise. The tendon is swollen and frayed, but not entirely torn, and the bone is deeply bruised but not broken. More physical therapy, trying to get around a little bit without the boot and praying to fall into a deep sleep for, oh, 8 to 12 weeks.

On the bright side, the pictures are pretty good, considering what the photographers had to work with.