A Bad Break - Part 1

I'll always remember that morning. The day after Christmas. Clear. Sunny. Bright. The world glistening. Coated in a layer of ice.

When I left for work, I scattered the rest of the rock salt at the base of the porch stairs. Headed for the train. Nobody else around but me. Quiet. Peaceful. Slippery. But I was confident. I was wearing my boots. Had enough time. Just had to be careful. Maintain my balance. Walk with measured steps.

Made it to the end of the block. Turned the corner. Step pause. Step pause. And I was on my back. Struggled to my feet. Wobbled. And I was down again. This time, I wasn't getting up. This time, I knew something was wrong.

I didn't hear a snap or feel any searing jolt of pain. Just knew. Something was wrong with my right ankle. Sitting in the snow, I eased out my cell phone, called my wife (thank the stars she was home).

"I think I broke something."

"Pack some snow in your knit cap. Wrap it around the ankle."

All so prosaic. So matter of fact. She was getting dressed. She was on her way.

Slowly, delicately, removing my boot. Applying the knit-cap compress. Waiting. Sitting in the snow. Hearing the distant, doleful dinging of the train departing from the station (cue "The Bells" by Edgar Allan P.) Told myself, "You should've known better. At the first sight of the ice, you should've turned around. Gone back home."

Watching the occasional car pass. Several went by. Drivers seeing me there, plain as day, side of the road, clutching my ankle. Left for dead.

Finally, a car stopped.

"You okay?"

"Yeah" I lied. "My wife's coming."

When she arrived, the big challenge was getting inside (didn't want to put any weight on that ankle). Crawling to the open door, finding that the slightest pressure made me wince.

With my daughter's help, I made it in. Sprawled across the back seat. Door thumps shut. Our car inching toward the hospital.

The lobby of the ER, crowded with people who've taken a spill. Cradling arms, cupping wrists. Hobbling. Telling myself, "Don't worry. It's only a sprain."

In the X-ray room. Before removing my sock, the technician says, "So far, so good -- nobody's come in with a broken bone." Looks at my ankle sans sock. Can see that it's odd, misshapen, deformed. "So far."

An examination room. The ER doctor enters. Shows me an X-ray. There's my tibia. Cracks running up vertically from the heel. Like veins. Or threads on a celery stalk.

"Did a real job on yourself. Gonna need some hardware."

As the nurse slaps on a temporary cast, realizing that if I'd placed any weight on it, the ankle would've crumbled. Lucky that I didn't step on it. Lucky that my wife and daughter were home. Lucky I had a weekend to rest up before seeing the orthopedic surgeon.

The day after Christmas. Driving home. On a different day, I would've been at work. Everything would've been fine. One step -- everything changed.

It had been a brutal winter.

A warm front moved in that evening. The following day, it was amazingly balmy. The snow receded. The epidermis of ice thinned, shriveled, vanished.

That day and the next, I didn't leave my bed. But I was on my way. The first, ponderous steps in a long, affirming journey.