Last Week I broke my big toe.
At my age, I really should be a little more careful about watching where I am going, but I guess we all have our lapses. Anyway, I was carrying a stack of clothes into a closet and whacked my foot into the wall as I entered the closet door.
The whack really hurt, but since no one was home to hear me yell, I didn't bother, and after a while, the hurt subsided to a dull throb. In fact, I had almost forgotten about it by the time my husband showed up. I told him what had happened, and took the sock off my foot to show him how red it looked.
Wow!. When had it gone from being red to being black and blue and from looking like a small toe to looking like a huge wiener? All of a sudden, it started hurting again, and my sweet, caring husband insisted that we go to Urgent Care and have it taken care of since it was a weekend and my regular doctor's office was closed. We bundled up and off we went.
I was beginning to enjoy all the drama by this time, and imagined all the attention my toe would get when I showed up in church the next morning wearing a toe cast and stumbling in on crutches.
A quick X-ray revealed that my toe was indeed fractured, but the treatment was a very unglamorous looking bunch of tape applied to hold the broken toe close to the uninjured ones until it healed. No crutches, no pain pills, nothing to show but the bill, which I won't discuss here for fear of giving you a phobia about ever having a broken toe of your own.
I'm practically back to normal now, but I've been avoiding that wall on the left side of my closet door like the plague.