I had an accident at the weekend and I’d love to tell you what happened, but I can’t.
I can’t tell the doctors either.
It’s not that I was knocked unconscious.
It’s not that I was drunk and had a black out.
It’s just that I don’t know.
I worked steadfastly in the kitchen most of the day, cooking a special dinner for the men working outside in our garden.
I’ll just go over that point.
The manly ones spent around eight to ten hours slogging away outdoors, while I chopped and stirred and whizzed and peeled and ran backwards and forwards to the fridge (and to the shops for that matter, for forgotten ingredients). Then I went outside and planted in my newly built wall, for the best part of an hour, while the strongly ones rubbed their tummies and slugged on their beer.
In those eight to ten hours not one of the three gentlemen were injured.
Not one of the two children, running up and down the length of the garden with wheelbarrows and shoveling dirt, were blemished.
But in that one hour, something happened to me.
But I can’t tell you what.
Because I don’t know what.
I didn’t notice anything happening to me, that’s the problem.
I planted and I looked at my new wall and I felt good.
When I later went to bed, I had problems sleeping.
I arose in the morning and my heels itched like crazy and I noticed a couple of little marks. I decided that I must have been bitten by some evil creature – so I plastered it in anti-histamine gel.
But the swelling increased and it started to hurt.
My husband offered to call me a doctor. I (am trying to avoid doctors, seriously I’ve already over fifteen appointments, between the kids and I, this month, so far) declined but took up his suggestion of reducing the inflammation with some raw onion.
The onion tried it’s best but failed. So I ran myself a nice lavender bath.
I rested my feet a bit and worked on a project for a while. Later on, as I tried to stand up the pain was immense. I stared at my feet and one ankle, frankly, looked as if someone had shoved a hard-boiled egg under the skin. I felt some concern and my husband appeared notably worried, but I waved off his doctor ideas and decided we should pop out for a bite to eat instead. (As all sensible people do when their ankle is drooping down towards the floor).
I headed towards the car but had to stop for a little rest. Feeling very sick from the pain, I started to entertain my husband’s ‘visit the doctor’ plan. I braved the two-minute drive to the restaurant then looked at my foot, which had miraculously grown again and finally, I admitted defeat.
The doctor saw me right away. She prodded and poked and inspected the now extremely red and bulging area.
“There’s something in it!” She proclaimed.
At first, she believed it to be ticks, but thank goodness, that was not the case.
In a few short minutes she’d managed to remove five foreign bodies from my heels. Two from one and three from the other.
I had no idea what they were or where they came from.
She bandaged me up and sent me to the chemist for antibiotics.
It’s healing well (I know because I’ve been backwards and forwards to my GP continually to have it checked out) but I’ll be bandaged up until Sunday.
I now look like a different type of mummy!
But I implore you:
How is it possible to embed five foreign bodies in one’s foot, while throwing a bit of earth in a pot and ramming in a few tiny plants? I didn’t use my heels as spades. I didn’t hammer the ground flat with the back of my foot. I didn’t roll around the grass and I didn’t go near any bushes. I had trainers and socks on. I used my hands.
Still, at least none of the men turned into mummies.
And: I got to postpone my lady doctor appointment. 😉