I am here to vent today. To get this off my chest. Admittedly I generally write for laughs, however in this instance you are forbidden from laughing. Understand? Laughter will not be tolerated today. If I talk about ‘half a foot’, keep a straight face. M’kay.
Regular visitors will already be aware of my current physical incapacity. If you are here for the first time – first of all welcome and lets get you up to speed. I have been balancing on one foot and using crutches for nearly 12 weeks now, as a result of knee surgery. One foot. My right foot. Essentially I am only able to move because of my healthy and happy right foot. Can you guess where this is going?
Recently I have been more mobile due to reduced pain and thus have been attempting to be less of a burden to my wife. My logic being, if I don’t do something quickly, I’ll be divorced before I can walk again. Last night this evasive action took the form of attempting to return a tea tray to the kitchen.
Now, transporting items whilst using crutches is tricky. Essentially you have two options. 1) gripping it between your fingers, whilst holding the crutch handle 2) squeezing it under your armpit and pinning your elbow to your hip. Last night, due to the size and weight of the tray, I went with the under the arm option.
All was going swimmingly, SWIMMINGLY until I reached the kitchen and in a moment that can only have been brought about by an unravelling mind, I reached up to open a cupboard using the arm the tea tray was tucked under.
Seriously SERIOUSLY? It appears I am now channelling the spirit of a 1920’s Musical Hall act. Or a deceased clown destined forever to whore easy laughs at a kids party. Either way I am seemingly incapable of coordinating my four limbs in a manner that does not cause me pain. This is a concern.
The profanity and screeching that sprang forth as the corner of the tray bounced off my big toe, splitting the nail and splattering blood to the four corners of the room (possibly exaggerated) were enough to bring my wife running into the kitchen. Finding her husband leaning over one crutch, bent double like a drunken sailor, desperately trying to lower himself to the floor, because he can’t stand on EITHER OF HIS FEET, must have been a terrible experience for her. I am just thankful that some sort of sub-concious safety mechanism seemed to kick in, enabling her to snigger and giggle and titter her way to a protected mental health.
After a dramatic 45 minutes involving ice, swearing and recurrent shrieks of:
and slightly mocking assurances of:
“It’s not broken darling, calm down “
I was able to hobble slowly and painfully through to the sofa. I moved in stages. Short bursts of staggering and groaning. I took to venting the pain by mooing birth noises that I’d picked up during my wife’s two labour experiences. This I consider to be perfectly acceptable, not dramatic or unmanly in the slightest. After all they are similar experiences in terms of pain levels.*
(I cannot be 100% certain but I am sure I heard the words “man-up” and “Ladyboy” whispered from the kitchen as I made my way to the lounge, however I am assured that these words were definitely not spoken. It has since been suggested to me that it was perhaps the dishwasher on rinse cycle that I mistook for furtive verbal abuse? It is my intention to sit next to the dishwasher during it’s next rinse to test this theory).
The upshot of all this is that I can now only move by using crutches and half a foot. HALF A FOOT. I can’t use ALL of my right foot any more due to my bruised and bloodied big toe. So I am forced to walk on the side of my foot, all the weight forced down through my innocent pinky. I look like an unfortunate birth defect. *sigh*
So, the next time I post, I will most likely be sat in my own filth, hungry, tired, desperate for a wee and lonely, as my beautiful wife will have left me and taken the kids and my crutches with her. Please call someone.
* I do not consider my toe incident to be the pain equivalent of my wife giving birth. I am not that ridiculous. Or suicidal.
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