A Heeled Chance Encounter

Yesterday, I got stitches on the back of my ankle*. After the events of the day transpired, mainly getting cut by the door and having a wonderful buffet lunch at an Indian restaurant on "Main Street," celebrating my sister's birthday, I realized that all I felt was angry. Angry with myself for wearing flip-flops instead of sneakers, angry with my doctor who had me sit there in the waiting room and then in the examining room for a long, long time, and angry with the back of my foot for not holding out as well as I thought it should. I now know that I shouldn't blame the back of my foot. He was just doing what the back-of-your-foots are supposed to do, you know? What was he supposed to do, anyway - use his brute strength to shield me from the heavy, dark-wood door? And the doctor, who was probably checking up on the kid the next room over, the cute, little one who'd been playing with the blocks for a while. How could I possibly be angry at him? He was kind, asked about our family, poured liquid all over my foot, and then sent us quickly to the plastic surgeon to get me stitched up. The doctor, he's a good guy. And the plastic surgeon, who looked tired and worn out and was ready for the Sabbath, but still made time to see us. The stitching wasn't so bad, but the numbing needles hurt like crazy and I couldn't stop myself from crying. I think I needed a cry, and I think that's okay. And so, I've decided that in my need to be angry instead of scared, that I was just angry that it was stupid. It was stupid that I caught my foot on the back of a door and needed stitches, stupid that it happened two weeks before our half-marathon, stupid that I didn't make the card for my sister's birthday before it happened. And you know? It was a real relief to know that all these people love me and that the doctors are trying their best to make sure I heal. And it was a blessing the cut didn't reach my Achilles tendon, which is, coincidentally, the same kind of blessing I got that the cut in my hand came so close to the artery but didn't hit it. The stitches are water-proof so my morning routine doesn't have to change, and the plastic surgeon says I'm ready to run if I want. So now I get to limp around a little bit, enjoy showing my friends my battle wound, and say, "Ah, yea, it was nothing," with a look of great courage on my face. I'm feeling prettty lucky. :) *I don't know why, but these last two posts have been about medically-related unhappiness and I am sorry.