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.
I turned the three questions over in my mind. I didn’t think I was abused in any way. Not at home, certainly.
Why does being abused at home count, yet being abused outside the home not count?
And what perpetrators would be considered—for example, the squirrels that had infested the home? And how would any of them be prosecuted?
I ended up just bursting out laughing, and said “No to all.”
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.
Then I was 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