I blame Australia
Jul. 10th, 2010 08:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pbrayThe plan for Friday was simple. Wake up, run the 6AM database loads, shower, pack car, and make the 6 hour drive to New Hampshire. There I would rendezvous with Stacey, and we'd head to the Prouty Registration center to pick up our bibs so we'd be ready for the cancer fundraising bike ride on Saturday.
The reality was a tad different.
First, I didn't sleep well. Partly from the oppressive heat, and part was undoubtedly due to psychic waves of distress from Australia invading my subconscious. When I logged on the very first thing I received was a frantic instant message from my counterpart in Australia. I'd barely had a sip of coffee and now it was emergency crunch time. It took me nearly three hours to figure out what had gone wrong, fix it, document the fix, and then do my own database loads.
Cranky from the frantic start to the day, and now running over an hour late, I showered, threw stuff in the suitcase and started loading the car. Work laptop? Check. Suitcase? Check. Sandwich in chill bag to eat on road? Check. Wine as gift for friends? Check. Bike? Check.
Then, as I was heading to the garage to load in the final bag of cycling gear, I slipped off the top step and landed hard on my left foot, twisting it. The air turned blue as I cursed.
I went back in the house. My foot hurt like hell. I took two Tylenol. I took off my sneaker and sock, put a small ice pack against my foot, then pulled sock back on and put it back in the sneaker (after taking out the orthotic so I had room to fit my foot inside.) I grabbed extra ice packs from fridge and put them in the chill bag I was using for my sandwich.
And then I started driving to New Hampshire. This was my left foot, I didn't need it to drive. It could get better, if not I had icepacks and Tylenol in the car. If I did have problems, Stacey & Nick would take care of me. And if things got bad, the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Hanover has a great reputation.
Then, about an hour from the house, as I came to a rest stop, I realized I needed to pull over and evaluate the situation.
The ice pack was warm. My foot was swelling. While I could wiggle my toes (sort of) and flex my foot, it hurt. Putting weight on it hurt more.
I called Stacey, and the conversation went something like this:
"Hey, how are you?"
"Fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Well, I sprained my ankle."
"Oh no!"
"But don't worry, I'm on my way on I-88."
"??"
"It's my left foot, so I don't need it to drive."
"Are you okay? Do you need to get it checked out?"
"I don't think so. (beat). It's not too bad now, I just think I need more ice."
"Ice?!"
"Oh, and I can't really walk on it."
"And you think you're going to be able to ride 50 miles tomorrow?"
"Well, if it hurts maybe we can just do the 35 mile ride."
"Do you hear what you are saying?"
I confessed that the pain was about a 5 on a scale of 1-10. Stacey tried to talk me into turning around and going home. I countered that I'd drive for another hour and reassess. If I did make it up to her place and was disabled, I could stay there as long as I needed.
I started driving again. And ten minutes later, Stacey's words sunk in and at the next exit I got off the highway and turned around.
I knew my behavior was irrational. But I was furious with myself for making such a careless mistake. And I was heartbroken that I would miss the weekend. The cancer ride is important to me, and spending time with Stacey and Nick equally so. I felt like I was letting down everyone who'd pledged money in support. That I was being weak for not just sucking it up and going on anyway. Look at the Tour de France riders who ride with broken bones, how pathetic is it that an ankle was going to disable me? Never mind that I'm not a professional athlete, and I'm older than the tour riders, I still felt like a failure.
By the time I got home the pain was intense, coming in waves. When I took off my sneaker, I couldn't put weight on that foot. Two of my friends broke their ankles by tripping and falling, so I decided discretion was the better part of valor and went to the walk-in clinic. There they diagnosed an ugly sprain, gave me an aircast and sent me home to protect/rest/ice/compress/elevate. They gave me Aleve and something stronger so I could sleep at night. Back home, I settled in the recliner with an icepack on the foot and turned on the Tour of France. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening icing and resting the foot. Hobbling from living room to kitchen or living room to bathroom was challenging but I managed. (Walk-in had offered me crutches but I declined on premise they would only encourage me to overdo things.)
I can't remember spraining my ankle, certainly not as an adult. I did break my foot in taekwondo, but that was nearly twenty years ago. I'm not athletic, but I'm not injury prone. I'm still not quite sure why they call it an ankle sprain when the swelling and pain is mostly on the top of my foot below the ankle, but I assume it's one of those medical mysteries.
Now it's Saturday. I know I made the right decision not to go up to New Hampshire, but I'm terribly disappointed. Even knowing that my donations still count, and my number is being given to one of the riders on the standby list doesn't help.
The 6AM database load for today is finished, the Tour de France is on TV, and Stacey promised to call me later to let me know how her ride went. I'm going to take it easy. If the pain gets worse, it will be time for x-rays, but I'm hoping things improve.
And I'm still mad at myself. I know better. If this had happened to any one of my friends, I would have delivered the obligatory "Rushing is never worth it, carelessness leads to injury" lecture. Going to be a while before I can forgive myself for being fallible.
The reality was a tad different.
First, I didn't sleep well. Partly from the oppressive heat, and part was undoubtedly due to psychic waves of distress from Australia invading my subconscious. When I logged on the very first thing I received was a frantic instant message from my counterpart in Australia. I'd barely had a sip of coffee and now it was emergency crunch time. It took me nearly three hours to figure out what had gone wrong, fix it, document the fix, and then do my own database loads.
Cranky from the frantic start to the day, and now running over an hour late, I showered, threw stuff in the suitcase and started loading the car. Work laptop? Check. Suitcase? Check. Sandwich in chill bag to eat on road? Check. Wine as gift for friends? Check. Bike? Check.
Then, as I was heading to the garage to load in the final bag of cycling gear, I slipped off the top step and landed hard on my left foot, twisting it. The air turned blue as I cursed.
I went back in the house. My foot hurt like hell. I took two Tylenol. I took off my sneaker and sock, put a small ice pack against my foot, then pulled sock back on and put it back in the sneaker (after taking out the orthotic so I had room to fit my foot inside.) I grabbed extra ice packs from fridge and put them in the chill bag I was using for my sandwich.
And then I started driving to New Hampshire. This was my left foot, I didn't need it to drive. It could get better, if not I had icepacks and Tylenol in the car. If I did have problems, Stacey & Nick would take care of me. And if things got bad, the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Hanover has a great reputation.
Then, about an hour from the house, as I came to a rest stop, I realized I needed to pull over and evaluate the situation.
The ice pack was warm. My foot was swelling. While I could wiggle my toes (sort of) and flex my foot, it hurt. Putting weight on it hurt more.
I called Stacey, and the conversation went something like this:
"Hey, how are you?"
"Fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Well, I sprained my ankle."
"Oh no!"
"But don't worry, I'm on my way on I-88."
"??"
"It's my left foot, so I don't need it to drive."
"Are you okay? Do you need to get it checked out?"
"I don't think so. (beat). It's not too bad now, I just think I need more ice."
"Ice?!"
"Oh, and I can't really walk on it."
"And you think you're going to be able to ride 50 miles tomorrow?"
"Well, if it hurts maybe we can just do the 35 mile ride."
"Do you hear what you are saying?"
I confessed that the pain was about a 5 on a scale of 1-10. Stacey tried to talk me into turning around and going home. I countered that I'd drive for another hour and reassess. If I did make it up to her place and was disabled, I could stay there as long as I needed.
I started driving again. And ten minutes later, Stacey's words sunk in and at the next exit I got off the highway and turned around.
I knew my behavior was irrational. But I was furious with myself for making such a careless mistake. And I was heartbroken that I would miss the weekend. The cancer ride is important to me, and spending time with Stacey and Nick equally so. I felt like I was letting down everyone who'd pledged money in support. That I was being weak for not just sucking it up and going on anyway. Look at the Tour de France riders who ride with broken bones, how pathetic is it that an ankle was going to disable me? Never mind that I'm not a professional athlete, and I'm older than the tour riders, I still felt like a failure.
By the time I got home the pain was intense, coming in waves. When I took off my sneaker, I couldn't put weight on that foot. Two of my friends broke their ankles by tripping and falling, so I decided discretion was the better part of valor and went to the walk-in clinic. There they diagnosed an ugly sprain, gave me an aircast and sent me home to protect/rest/ice/compress/elevate. They gave me Aleve and something stronger so I could sleep at night. Back home, I settled in the recliner with an icepack on the foot and turned on the Tour of France. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening icing and resting the foot. Hobbling from living room to kitchen or living room to bathroom was challenging but I managed. (Walk-in had offered me crutches but I declined on premise they would only encourage me to overdo things.)
I can't remember spraining my ankle, certainly not as an adult. I did break my foot in taekwondo, but that was nearly twenty years ago. I'm not athletic, but I'm not injury prone. I'm still not quite sure why they call it an ankle sprain when the swelling and pain is mostly on the top of my foot below the ankle, but I assume it's one of those medical mysteries.
Now it's Saturday. I know I made the right decision not to go up to New Hampshire, but I'm terribly disappointed. Even knowing that my donations still count, and my number is being given to one of the riders on the standby list doesn't help.
The 6AM database load for today is finished, the Tour de France is on TV, and Stacey promised to call me later to let me know how her ride went. I'm going to take it easy. If the pain gets worse, it will be time for x-rays, but I'm hoping things improve.
And I'm still mad at myself. I know better. If this had happened to any one of my friends, I would have delivered the obligatory "Rushing is never worth it, carelessness leads to injury" lecture. Going to be a while before I can forgive myself for being fallible.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-10 08:44 pm (UTC)I certainly hope your sprain heals faster than mine do. (We're talking 2 months minimum on crutches because of how badly damaged my poor ankle is.) And ask for help if you need it. It's always a good thing to get someone else to pamper you once in a while. *grin*
(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-11 12:07 am (UTC)