My life as a gimp, Act One.

My ankle is broken.

It is so badly broken - the word used was "shattered", actually - and in such a weird way that the orthopedic surgeon refused to treat it, and instead punted me to a foot/ankle specialist. I'm having a CAT scan on Friday, so as to determine if surgery is needed - and thus all the plates and screws and bolts to hold my tibia together - or if they can just pop a cast on it. Obviously I would prefer the latter, as I am terrified of surgery. Also, if they don't have to do it, I'd rather not. I've never had surgery before, and I don't know how I react to anesthesia.

Either way, I'm going to have massive arthritis in a few years' time, so that essentially cuts out any career where I must stand. Even though it won't show up for a while, standing constantly day in and day out only aggravates and accelerates it. Meaning, I will probably never become a chef. If this were Reader's Digest, in five years I'd be writing that I'm a millionaire or something, in one of those inspirational stories they love to print. The only thing I'm inspired to do right now is fume and rage as I try to putter around the top floor of my house and not fall over and land on my ankle as I already did once this evening, thus causing hysterical screaming on my end and abject horror at my agony on my father's end.

What is making this bearable is the prescription for 55 Percocets I've been given to tide me over until we find out what's going on with the CAT scan/possible surgery/whatever. My chest and shoulders and neck hurt too, which makes it harder for me to move around anyway, because I'm basically drained of all strength.

My father has been amazing about this. He's the entire reason I was able to get out of the house at all, or make it into the podiatrist's office and out again, and then back into the house. I'm lucky that he's so physically strong, or I'd still be collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, crying. My mother, too, has been amazing, getting water for me and bringing a TV tray into my room so I can type and eat more comfortably. My brother is trying to get into nursing school, so I suppose I'll let him practice on me. I promised not to let him see my ass.

But I cannot be bitter, for I am not alone. The nurses were wonderful and compassionate and gave me a pair of crutches they actually shouldn't have, but knew I couldn't afford to buy a pair myself. The podiatrist was gentle and kind and tried not to yank my foot around as he examined it. The pharmacist filled my prescription as fast as he could because he knew what kind of pain I was in. My parents and brother have kept me from doing more damage to myself by helping drag me around the house. My friends have called and texted and e-mailed me with commands to let them help in any way possible. One, in particular, is helping me to look for jobs I can do from home, as I'll be knocked out of commission for only the gods know how long.

I've already filled out one application, so I'll see what happens. For now I'm going to have a gyro and another Percocet, as the one I took three hours ago is beginning to wear off, and gimp myself into my parents' bedroom to watch the season premiere of House. I don't think I'll be going downstairs again for a long, long while. Good way to get myself to stop drinking soda.