Monthly Archives: August 2018

It’s Like Riding a Bicycle…


You’re not even gonna believe this.  It’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done – which is really saying something.

During our first week of vacation, Robert wanted to go on a long bike ride with just me.  He was really excited about some time with just the two of us – and so was I.  Robert hopped on his bike and started toward the bridge off the island.

I went to follow and couldn’t steer my bike.  I got off, tried to tighten the handlebars, and got back on.  Second verse – same as the first.  A little bit louder and a little bit worse.  Third time’s a charm, right?  Surely this bike was fixed – I couldn’t tighten the bolt anymore and Robert had been gone for three minutes.  I needed to catch up to him.

I threw my leg over the bike and hoisted myself up onto the seat.  I knew I was in trouble in seconds that felt like forever.  The wheel turned the opposite way I was steering, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep my balance.

You know those moments where you just watch something happen to yourself?  This was one of those.  I could feel myself falling over (only later did I realize I tried to put my foot down over the curb).  All I could think was, “Oh, shit.  This is gonna hurt.  This is gonna hurt.”

Turns out I was right.  It hurt.  I hit the sidewalk, the curb, and then the parking lot – pulling the bike with me.  I sat up to take stock of myself, thinking it wasn’t too terrible.  Then the blood started.  I took a chunk out of my hand, scratched my left leg (would you believe I still have bruises four weeks later?!) and arms, and destroyed my right shin.  Shredded it.

I couldn’t get myself up.  Shaking, I picked up the phone and called Justin.  He came out, surprised to find me sprawled out on the parking lot under my UPS bike.  I showered as best I could and headed to urgent care, where they did X-rays (nothing was broken!) and cleaned up all the scrapes.

It’s been four weeks.  There are scars covering my right shin and extreme pain in my right foot.  Surely that would be feeling better, right?  I went to the doctor, just in case.  Still, the X-ray showed nothing.  He sent me for an MRI, a move I found ridiculous.  Obviously, my medical expertise lead me to believe it must just be a deep bruise.

The joke’s on me.  I have torn the ligament around my Lisfranc joint (it’s what holds the bones in our feet together so we don’t look like ducks).  After meeting with an orthopedic PA yesterday, I saw an orthopedic surgeon today.  We did one final X-ray to see how the space in the joint on my right foot compared to the one on the left.  If it was similar, a cast.  If it was bigger…

It was bigger…  So surgery is scheduled for next Thursday.  They’ll put a screw into two of my bones to close the joint and let the ligament heal.  Then, no weight bearing for 6-8 weeks.  Do you know how long that is?!  Holy.  Cow.  Have you met my children?  This is going to be epic.


Hold. My. Beer.


We were getting ready to leave the pool when Alexander saw it happen.  Grown men flipping into the pool.

“Mom!  I HAVE to learn how to do that!”

“Do what?”

“Flip into the pool!  I need to do that.  It’ll be so awesome!”

Keep in mind – six weeks before, he wouldn’t get into the pool without ensuring that his nails were deeply embedded into my skin.  Now he was insisting that he learn how to flip into a pool?  At four years old?  Yeah, right.

But, hey.  I’m a firm believer that kids need to advocate for themselves, so, if Alexander wanted to learn how to flip into the pool, he needed to go ask.  Undaunted at the prospect of facing grown men, he grabbed my hand and walked across the pool area.

“Can you teach me how to flip into the pool?” he asked.

“You want to flip, little man?  You do it just like this!”  And, off this guy went, flipping into the pool, closely followed by two other flippers.

This is the point where I expected it to end – it sure as hell would have for me!  There’s no way I would throw myself upside down and around to get into the pool.  Not at four and certainly not at 38.  However, Alexander is not me.

He waited for the guys to get out of the pool and halfway through their explanation before running for the edge of the pool.  I held my breath, my heart stuck in my chest.  Alexander jumped – surely he would stop there! – and flipped himself over and into the pool.  And continued to do so for the next thirty minutes.

My heart stopped every time he turned himself upside down.  Every. Single. Time.  His teenage years may send me into cardiac arrest…