SlickTony
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- May 25, 2002
- Posts
- 6,344
So I was crossing McCormick Rd to get to the stop where I catch the bus every day. JTA recently made some changes in their route, and this stop is not nearly as good as the one I used to take: it's farther away, and instead of getting to walk on all pavement, one has to drag one's feet through a grassy esplanade.
This morning I stepped off the esplanade onto the pavement, and somehow, my right foot twisted under me and I went down in a heap. My ankle hurt like hell and I could not get up; my leg would not support my weight and there was a weird mushy yielding sensation in it that frightened me.
I tried to get hold of my son, who was sleeping at home. No dice. I called my husband, but he'd gotten to work already, he was alone in the office, and couldn't get away until he'd OK'd it with his shift supervisor. In the mean time there I was sitting on the curb with my ass in the grass and my feet in the gutter, and people were just ZOOMING by.
I mean, I wasn't looking like some derelict; I was wearing a nice looking 2-piece dress and heeled sandals (which the doctor later blamed for my fall). And people just sped on by as if office-dressed women sat in the middle of the street all the time.
At last a cop came up, helped me into his car, and drove me home. He offered to help me into the house but I knew I'd just have to come out again so I decided to sit sideways in the front seat of my husband's car (it had a flat, so he'd taken mine). He thought my son ought to at least come out to be with me until my husband arrived, so he rapped on his bedroom window until he woke, looked out the window, saw the cop, threw on some clothes and came out. Maybe he thought I'd gotten busted
Eventually my husband came and we went to the local clinic. They took some x-rays and determined that I had a spiral fracture of the tibia, and referred me to an orthopedist. The orthopedist, whose name was familiar to me because he'd treated my son's broken hand last year and had had an addition put onto his house for which I saw the NOC in public records in the course of my job, had me fixed up with this nifty pneumatic boot. I'm not supposed to put any weight on my foot, and I'm not supposed to drive, for 6 weeks. Weekend after this one I was supposed to carry a fellow soprano in the choir to the yearly retreat in St. Simon's Island (she does not drive; I've been doing this for her for years). Tomorrow I was supposed to have been the testing coordinator for my TKD class, and the following day I was supposed to have had a tennis lesson.
Oh, well...
Fortunately we have a set of crutches from when my son sprained his ankle, and I'm getting accustomed to them, and my workplace has assured me that I can use the elevator. It's a spooky, rattling, noisy, scary-looking freight type elevator that's used to shift presses and those rolls of newsprint that are more than 4' high, but it's never crashed yet and it beats negotiating the double flight of stairs I should have to negotiate to get from the ground floor to where my office is.
This morning I stepped off the esplanade onto the pavement, and somehow, my right foot twisted under me and I went down in a heap. My ankle hurt like hell and I could not get up; my leg would not support my weight and there was a weird mushy yielding sensation in it that frightened me.
I tried to get hold of my son, who was sleeping at home. No dice. I called my husband, but he'd gotten to work already, he was alone in the office, and couldn't get away until he'd OK'd it with his shift supervisor. In the mean time there I was sitting on the curb with my ass in the grass and my feet in the gutter, and people were just ZOOMING by.
I mean, I wasn't looking like some derelict; I was wearing a nice looking 2-piece dress and heeled sandals (which the doctor later blamed for my fall). And people just sped on by as if office-dressed women sat in the middle of the street all the time.
At last a cop came up, helped me into his car, and drove me home. He offered to help me into the house but I knew I'd just have to come out again so I decided to sit sideways in the front seat of my husband's car (it had a flat, so he'd taken mine). He thought my son ought to at least come out to be with me until my husband arrived, so he rapped on his bedroom window until he woke, looked out the window, saw the cop, threw on some clothes and came out. Maybe he thought I'd gotten busted
Eventually my husband came and we went to the local clinic. They took some x-rays and determined that I had a spiral fracture of the tibia, and referred me to an orthopedist. The orthopedist, whose name was familiar to me because he'd treated my son's broken hand last year and had had an addition put onto his house for which I saw the NOC in public records in the course of my job, had me fixed up with this nifty pneumatic boot. I'm not supposed to put any weight on my foot, and I'm not supposed to drive, for 6 weeks. Weekend after this one I was supposed to carry a fellow soprano in the choir to the yearly retreat in St. Simon's Island (she does not drive; I've been doing this for her for years). Tomorrow I was supposed to have been the testing coordinator for my TKD class, and the following day I was supposed to have had a tennis lesson.
Oh, well...
Fortunately we have a set of crutches from when my son sprained his ankle, and I'm getting accustomed to them, and my workplace has assured me that I can use the elevator. It's a spooky, rattling, noisy, scary-looking freight type elevator that's used to shift presses and those rolls of newsprint that are more than 4' high, but it's never crashed yet and it beats negotiating the double flight of stairs I should have to negotiate to get from the ground floor to where my office is.
for your "owie" from the good little witch.
