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Many of us have experienced the misery of a broken bone. There’s the initial shock—that delightful “wait, did I just audition for Cirque du Soleil?” moment—followed by the kind of pain that makes you question every decision you’ve ever made, starting with getting out of bed that day. Eventually it settles into a persistent, pulsing ache, like your body whispering, “You done messed up.” I’ve had my fair share of broken bones—it’s practically my side hustle at this point.
When we first arrived in North Carolina, while my family and friends were gallantly lugging boxes on my behalf, I decided to test the load-bearing capacity of my skeleton by dramatically tripping over a Christmas tree box. Because nothing says welcome home quite like breaking your arm in two places before the kitchen is unpacked. Took a while to bounce back from that one—but hey, nothing builds character like involuntary one-handedness.
Fast forward several years. Life’s rolling along, things are relatively normal, the Christmas tree’s safely in storage where it can’t attack me—and then I trip again. This time over my own two feet. Getting out of the shower. Because apparently, I’ve declared war on personal hygiene. The injury? Just a broken toe. Or so I naively thought.
So, here’s a fun fact you might not know: there’s basically nothing to be done for a broken toe. No cast, no dramatic boot, no cool orthopedic gadget to show off. Nope. Maybe a splint. Possibly some buddy-taping if your toes are on speaking terms. But really, it’s a prescription for pain and lifestyle derailment. My toe—bless its little shattered knuckle—has single-“handedly” sabotaged my life for the past month.
The first few days were spent in a recliner, cycling through every streaming platform known to man. (We seriously need to consolidate. Or at least start a spreadsheet.) Eventually I made the leap—well, hobble—to crutches, imagining myself gliding through the house with tragic elegance, like an injured Hollywood diva. Reality? Think less Grace Kelly, more agitated orangutan. Within days, the ol’ wrists were screaming in protest and armpits felt like they’d hosted a cage match. (Apparently, there’s a wrong way to use crutches. I found it.) Three weeks in, I swapped the crutches for a single cane—a major milestone for my battle-worn armpits. One wrist is still staging a slow-burning mutiny, but hey, progress is progress.
We’re now approaching the one-month mark, and I’m still amazed that a toe—a toe!—has caused such wide-reaching chaos. First the toe, then the wrists, then the armpits, and now, thanks to my limp, my left hip has decided to join the rebellion. My body’s staging a dramatic ensemble piece called “Falling Apart,” with special guest appearances by Limp, Ache, and Sudden Hip Pain. And let’s not even talk about when I tried the back porch stairs and discovered that my quads have apparently retired. Both of them. Without notice. The implications are bleak. I am at… that… age.
Yesterday, I walked! Technically. Lopsided and winded after 20 yards, but upright and ambulatory. Today, I tried again and looked like a Weeble Wobble escaping from a nursing home. But it hurt less, and that counts as a win, too. Right?
The moral of this story? I’m not entirely sure. Maybe it’s a cautionary tale about the fragility of the human body. Maybe it’s a testament to the resilience of the human spirit (or at least, the stubbornness of mine). Whatever the takeaway, one thing’s for certain: I’ll never again look at my little piggies as insignificant! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the recliner, where I will ice my hip, reevaluate all of my life choices, and pretend not to hear my daughter mentioning grab bars. Again.