Broken and Depressed. Literally.

I have a confession: I am a terrible patient.  For one thing, I am not patient at all. I bitch and complain about colds, sore throats and the flu. I tend to stomp like a brat while whining about how unfair it all is. I realize this behavior is a bore, so I tend to keep to myself when I’m sick.

Right now I’m injured. Naturally, I am pissed. Livid. Even worse, it’s going to take all summer before I'm back to normal.

Last week I was on my way to Santa Barbara for a horse show, so I stopped to see Lucy and her baby, Faith. I only do this, oh, about four times a week.

As usual, armed with a five pound bag of carrots, I ducked under the electric fence and hollered for Lucy and Faith. Faith and her BFF immediately ran towards me with their moms ambling behind them.

I poured a bunch of carrots on the ground in two piles so Lucy and her gal pal wouldn’t bicker, and was breaking up bits to give to the foals, when a mare from the adjoining field came over to beg for a treat. Oops.

Until motherhood’s hormones kicked in, Lucy had a legendary temper. She ruled fields, arenas and wash racks with just a nasty look. That mare might have been in completely other field, but according to Lucy, she was too damn close. Not to Faith, Lucy is kind of sick of her, but to Lucy’s carrots.

In a flash, Lucy wheeled her butt around to snarl at the mare and smacked me into the electric fence.  As I hit the dirt, she stomped on my foot, squishing it as she whirled away.  Double oops.

Next thing I knew, I was on the ground getting shocked by the fence and looking up into the absolutely thrilled faces of the babies. They were so sure I was laying there in order to play with them, they could barely contain themselves. My screams of pain did confuse them a little.

With some effort, I shooed them away, grabbed Lucy’s front leg and used it to shimmy myself upright.  If she thought it was odd, she didn’t react. In her mind it was probably no weirder than some of the other stuff I’d asked her to do over the last 11 years.  

Standing wasn’t one of my better ideas.  My foot burned and the pasture swirled in circles, so I hobbled to the car to think.

This is what I came up with:  I better hit the road. I was late for my riding lesson at the show.  On to Santa Barbara.

Once at the show I took off my sneaker and looked at my foot. It looked normal-ish so I shoved it in a riding boot and rode.  It ached but not too badly.  As long as I could get my boot on in the morning, I was going to compete.

That night I stayed home and kept my foot iced and elevated. It was starting to turn a fascinating shade of purple and black.

I sussed out a nearby urgent care clinic for the next day. After I competed.

Wes looked gorgeous the next morning and I was dying to show. So I sucked it up and shoved my boot on. After a few minutes I could hardly feel my foot at all.

When my classes were over (I was pretty terrible, but I made it around), I headed for the urgent care.

I don’t recommend needing urgent care anywhere, but if you do, go to Santa Barbara.  In well under an hour, a pleasant doctor was examining my X-rays.

Even I could spot the break in my foot..  The doctor sent me away with a prescription, an ace bandage and instructions to see my doctor when I got home. He didn’t specifically tell me I couldn’t ride.

So the next morning I squeezed back into my boot (it was a lot more swollen and had a distinct resemblance Fred Flintstone’s foot) and hopped back on Wes to try and improve on the previous day’s horrible performance.

After an hour I conceded that it wasn’t meant to be.
I grudgingly dismounted.

I saw my new orthopedic doctor the other day. She outfitted me in a nightmare version of an orthopedic Birkenstock with orders to wear it for the next four to six weeks.

She did say I could ride. As long as I don’t use stirrups.

I’m still furious, but can’t even stomp around in a snit.  It hurts too much. Which hasn't stopped me from fuming to anyone who will listen.