Welcome to another Wicked Wednesday!
I once walked on a broken ankle for about 4 weeks.
Before you ask, no. I didn’t mean to, I just didn’t know it was broken.
I rolled it falling off a curb, not very exciting. I walked for another twenty minutes or so, and then when it was time to go home I at least pretended to elevate it briefly.
I thought nothing of it. It was getting more painful, but there were hundreds of reasons for that, so I didn’t stress about it. We went on bush walks, and hikes, climbed up hills, and over uneven terrain. I kept on going to physiotherapy, and using the gym equipment. I didn’t even try to cut the poor joint any slack.
I started saying it was broken as more of a joke than anything else, and so that’s what everyone took it as. I was still kind of joking when finally I went to have an X-ray, mainly for the purpose of shutting me up.
The radiologist was pretty rough, and did some damage herself, so I ended up in emergency two days later to have the X-ray looked at.
The staff at the emergency room were lovely, but they seemed to have quite the issue with me walking. They asked if I’d walked in, or sort of limped, and seemed awfully relieved when limped was the answer. They didn’t even want to let me walk a metre and a half to go to the toilet. I shudder to think what they’d have thought had they known about all the bushwalking I’d been doing.
In the end up, I wore a boot for a few weeks and I have now have quite the anecdote to tell about the time I didn’t know I’d broken my ankle. No biggie, and it gave me a wonderful opportunity for a whole host of ‘I told you so’s’.