“I’m going to go water the garden,” I said to Mom and John. I turned, took a step or two, and my left ankle gave way. I landed flat out on my stomach, my palms scraped by the sand and stones of the driveway.
Talk about feeling stupid. I don’t remember ever taking a flying tumble like that before, though it is not the first time in my life that my ankle suddenly gave out on me. No hole, no uneven spots, no rocks or curbs this time. Just an errant ankle.
The timing of this sprain is pretty bad, to say the least. We are preparing to have flooring installed next week. True, I have been pushing my limits in the quest to dig out my room and clear off all furniture surfaces and closet floors. Enforced rest is not what I had in mind, though. At least the ankle swelling is closer to chicken egg than goose egg size.
However, on the bright side, because I’ve been doing all this cleaning, I did know exactly where my assortment of ankle supports and splints were: in a box in John’s shop. I boxed them up yesterday.
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