A few days before Christmas rolled around, I was leaving a store in Pittsford Plaza—and missed the last step.
Face plant on the sidewalk.
The front desk people rushed outside and gathered around me in horror (certainly, making sure I wouldn’t sue them for lack of lighting or stair markings).
At the time, I was overcome more by complete embarrassment than the actual pain.
I would have normally literally bounced back up from such an embarrassing stunt, saying “I’m OK! I’m OK!”–but I wasn’t able to. In the meantime, I assured them, “I just need a couple minutes to lay here.”
Everything hurt. I couldn’t even tell what body part took the worst hit. I did know that the brushburn on my chin was the least of it.
I made it home that night, probably still in shock. But the next morning knew I was in trouble, and headed to Urgent Care.
At intake, they asked for my birthdate, which health care providers always do. I always whisper conspiratorily “3/31/68” – like I’m fooling anyone. (“Did you see that supermodel check in? I thought she was 29 but I overheard her—can you believe she’s 55?”)
After about an hour, I was called in to be seen.
First, the nurse took my vitals—my blood pressure was through the roof due to anxiety and pain.
Then they asked me if I was being abused at home physically, emotionally, or “financially.” I thought “financially” was an interesting add.
In 2023 I had often been asked the physical and emotional abuse question—aside from run-of-the-mill PCP visits, in April I’d torn my right elbow, (6 months moderately painful recovery), and in August had a herniated disc in my spine (5 months excruciatingly painful recovery). And now this.
But this was the first time I recalled being asked the financial question. I turned this over in my mind. What does being abused financially have to do with health care? Maybe they were wondering if I would have enough to pay the bill. If I said yes, would they go speak to the financial abuser? I didn’t have the number for Citibank. Why they would demand that credit card payments be on time, I don’t know.
After a while, the PA saw me. X-rays were taken and evaluated. She said broken ankles due to “missing the last step” were a common injury. That was somewhat comforting, although I suspected that most of those people were over 80.
The PA said she saw a lot of “broken bone days” alternating with “abcess days.” I apologized for not having a disgusting abcess. She said, well actually you will have one, if you don’t disinfect the massive wound you have on your other leg from the fall. Duly noted.
The x-rays showed a hairline fracture along the outside and through the middle of the ankle. I was splinted in a half-assed ACE bandage contraption from the foot to the knee, and told that I could shower in it—but only if I put a garbage bag around it, followed by Saran Wrap. Yay! I had to stay completely off of my right leg for at least a week (easier said than done).
When I was assigned $500 crutches was when the real financial abuse began. I was then promptly sent to the Orthotic Urgent Care, whereupon they immediately dismantled the $300 bandage splint, and assigned me a $300 ski boot.
A few days later, it was Christmas. My older son couldn’t come home from the West Coast, so my younger son and I just hung out alone at home. While it certainly wasn’t as fun as a *real* Christmas, we exchanged gifts and bingewatched three seasons of Schitt’s Creek.
We are in love with the character of Moira Rose, who wisely observed:
“Who knows what will befall us tomorrow? You could be hit by a Mack truck or bopped on the head by a tiny piece of space debris.”
True, that.
Have a Happy – and Healthy – New Year! xoxo
