Gloomy Sunday made me do it
I feel like one of the thousands of people who blamed the Hungarian Suicide Song for either their suicide attempts or the attempts of others; I broke my bloody left foot because of Gloomy Sunday!
It was lunchtime last Tuesday and I was listening to Diamanda Galas' diabolically haunting version of the song, brainstorming on my newest script idea, This Picture, and generally having a good time. So much in fact, that I was completely oblivious to the fact that the foot I had been sitting on for the past thirty minutes was completely asleep. So, it came as some surprise when I finally got up and stepped down on my foot and it gave out beneath me. It was the most particular feeling. First off, when I stepped down I couldn't feel a thing, not even the floor, it was like I had no control whatsoever over my foot. It bent to the side (so I stepped down with the outside of my foot) and I collapsed onto the floor.
Now, I don't know about you, but when my limbs fall asleep, the reawakening are usually ridiculously, unbearably painful. Try if you will to imagine that excruciating pain as the blood rushes back to the limb in addition to the pain of a broken bone (or what I imagined to be a broken bone). Bloody awful isn’t it?
For about six hours afterwards I couldn’t step down on my foot, it would just give away underneath me. So I hopped around on one foot for the rest of the day, using a cane to steady myself lest I fall flat on my face. In doing so I bruised the palm of my hand so much I could barely move it, and pulled a muscle in my thigh. So now not only did I have a sore foot, but also a sore hand and sore leg. Joy.
That night I decided I had to go the library and pick up a bunch of my things. I practiced walking around the house and I could manage to step down on my foot finally, with the aid of a cane. So I went to the library, staggering around like a cripple, dropping DVDs and books and even my cane (am obviously uncoordinated when in pain). I came home content with an armload of movies and books I needed for research for my script, put another ice pack (in actuality frozen pizza sauce) on my foot, popped a few painkillers and snuggled into bed to watch Scoop. Well, I think I might have been a bit too ambitious with my trip to the library because I woke up at five in the morning crying, unable to even place the tip of my big toe on the ground without screaming. It was probably the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, but, the idiotic brave girl that I am, I just took a couple more extra strength painkillers, got the Father to toss me a some more frozen pizza sauce downstairs (he was leaving for work) and hopped back to bed.
I tried to sleep, I really did. I was utterly exhausted. So much in fact, that an hour or so later of unbearable pain I still couldn’t muster the energy to haul myself upstairs and get the Muzzer to take me to the hospital. So I lay in bed for two or more hours, sobbing, trying to put my foot into various positions to try and lessen the pain (when I say put, I mean move physically with my hands - I couldn’t even lift my foot up or move my toes. My duvet felt like a brick on top of my foot). Finally, I elevated my foot and at around seven thirty or eight, finally fell back asleep.
I woke up again at nine, maybe ten, and miracles of miracles, my foot didn’t fucking hurt anymore. Sure, it was sore, but I could walk on it again, I could bend it and I could move the bloody thing without the aid of my hands.
The pain lessened as the week progressed, so by Friday I didn’t need a cane anymore. By then I had this rather amusing sort of stagger with my left leg and a glide with my right (gliding was the only way I could move my thigh). It was as if the left side of my body has been taken over by an extra from Thriller and the right side by Sonja Henie.
Now, still painful, my foot is bruised and puffy. I have a slight suspicion that I may have a little break somewhere, but the parents are adamant it’s just inner bruising, etc. I guess we’ll see.
It was lunchtime last Tuesday and I was listening to Diamanda Galas' diabolically haunting version of the song, brainstorming on my newest script idea, This Picture, and generally having a good time. So much in fact, that I was completely oblivious to the fact that the foot I had been sitting on for the past thirty minutes was completely asleep. So, it came as some surprise when I finally got up and stepped down on my foot and it gave out beneath me. It was the most particular feeling. First off, when I stepped down I couldn't feel a thing, not even the floor, it was like I had no control whatsoever over my foot. It bent to the side (so I stepped down with the outside of my foot) and I collapsed onto the floor.
Now, I don't know about you, but when my limbs fall asleep, the reawakening are usually ridiculously, unbearably painful. Try if you will to imagine that excruciating pain as the blood rushes back to the limb in addition to the pain of a broken bone (or what I imagined to be a broken bone). Bloody awful isn’t it?
For about six hours afterwards I couldn’t step down on my foot, it would just give away underneath me. So I hopped around on one foot for the rest of the day, using a cane to steady myself lest I fall flat on my face. In doing so I bruised the palm of my hand so much I could barely move it, and pulled a muscle in my thigh. So now not only did I have a sore foot, but also a sore hand and sore leg. Joy.
That night I decided I had to go the library and pick up a bunch of my things. I practiced walking around the house and I could manage to step down on my foot finally, with the aid of a cane. So I went to the library, staggering around like a cripple, dropping DVDs and books and even my cane (am obviously uncoordinated when in pain). I came home content with an armload of movies and books I needed for research for my script, put another ice pack (in actuality frozen pizza sauce) on my foot, popped a few painkillers and snuggled into bed to watch Scoop. Well, I think I might have been a bit too ambitious with my trip to the library because I woke up at five in the morning crying, unable to even place the tip of my big toe on the ground without screaming. It was probably the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, but, the idiotic brave girl that I am, I just took a couple more extra strength painkillers, got the Father to toss me a some more frozen pizza sauce downstairs (he was leaving for work) and hopped back to bed.
I tried to sleep, I really did. I was utterly exhausted. So much in fact, that an hour or so later of unbearable pain I still couldn’t muster the energy to haul myself upstairs and get the Muzzer to take me to the hospital. So I lay in bed for two or more hours, sobbing, trying to put my foot into various positions to try and lessen the pain (when I say put, I mean move physically with my hands - I couldn’t even lift my foot up or move my toes. My duvet felt like a brick on top of my foot). Finally, I elevated my foot and at around seven thirty or eight, finally fell back asleep.
I woke up again at nine, maybe ten, and miracles of miracles, my foot didn’t fucking hurt anymore. Sure, it was sore, but I could walk on it again, I could bend it and I could move the bloody thing without the aid of my hands.
The pain lessened as the week progressed, so by Friday I didn’t need a cane anymore. By then I had this rather amusing sort of stagger with my left leg and a glide with my right (gliding was the only way I could move my thigh). It was as if the left side of my body has been taken over by an extra from Thriller and the right side by Sonja Henie.
Now, still painful, my foot is bruised and puffy. I have a slight suspicion that I may have a little break somewhere, but the parents are adamant it’s just inner bruising, etc. I guess we’ll see.