My Left Foot. And Sarah's Too.

Call it bad luck, or maybe a fluke.  A jinx, perhaps.  But some things just can't be made up.
On Tuesday, January 25, I had surgery on my left foot.  My bone spur was ground down to nothing, and ligaments in my big toes stretched a bit.  The plan?  This would alleviate some chronic pain of arthritis in my big toe, resulting in what was essentially no upward movement of the big toe.  Walking?  Ouch.  Stairs?  Ouch.  Even swimming?  Marginal, due to cramping in that toe at weird times.   It was time, and I knew it would not get any easier.  The surgery went well, and doctors were pleased.  I came home, not feeling anything below my left knee, hobbling on crutches and sporting a most un-stylish black boot.  Luckily, the pain was not terrible, and I began walking on it the next morning.  The most pain comes from my own torture, when I am supposed to pull the big toe backwards, a move I have not made in three or more years, mind you, until it hurts greatly.  I am supposed to gain 3-4 degrees of movement each day.  Not sure I am accomplishing that, but I do "hurt myself" regularly. I can see progress for sure. My children were entertained, particularly Sarah with my crutches.  I want to try, I want to try!  We lowered them to fit her height and she enjoyed being a big goofball and telling me what a dork I looked like trying to get around.  I was healing quickly, and did not need them past the first day at home.

Fast forward to Wednesday, Feb 2.  It is my turn to drive Sarah and her friend, Emily, to gymnastics in Gainesville.  Everything goes well, and I am playing Scrabble on the iPad waiting for the hour-long class to be over so we can head home.  Emily comes running up and says Sarah is injured and can't walk.  She is crying openly, something that I KNOW is not a good sign.  Sarah can hold back tears like her mother never could.  I support her one side and she hops all the way to the car.  I am sure it's more than a bruise as she can not put any weight on it at all.  We drive home, put her to bed, she goes to sleep.

Next morning, we head back to Gainesville to her pediatrician who recommends an X-Ray.  I say, I know just the place! We hustle over to UF Orthopaedic Institute, where I just had surgery.  Sure enough, fractured.  In three places.  Another $24 black boot.  Another follow-up appointment.  Another Stephenson, hobbling out of the clinic and plopping onto the blessed bench outside, waiting for her ride. (And when I say blessed bench, you better believe I mean BLESSED.  You have no idea until  you run around a building on crutches for a couple hours.  Even Sarah said when she saw it, said "Bench!  Blessed, beloved BENCH!")

So, in a strange twist of fate, here we sit.  My stitches poking out of my left foot, propped on the ottoman.  On the other end of the ottoman, her left foot, horribly bruised and swollen, propped on the pillows her daddy gave her.  Is it a fluke?  A strange coincidence? A bit of bad luck?  Did she jinx herself?  I don't know.  But I do know this.  NO MORE Stephenson children will be trying out those crutches!

Warning:  It is worse in real life.

I lightened it a little so you could see the difference, but it makes the bruise look better than it really is.