Tell A Story About Yourself

My feet hit the floor, and I was off. Sneakers squeaking on the gym floor, I was in the middle of a pack of high school girls--a group that strikes terror in the hearts of many. As I ran, I mentally complained about it. We’d just gotten to school, it was period 1! Does this teacher really expect us to run at our full potential at 7:45 AM? The group was rounding a corner, and I followed suit. As my foot came down, I heard a pop and saw it go in the opposite direction of a normal foot.

Whatever.

Eventually, the running warm-up subsided, and I ran back to the main area, ankle aching from the pop. I truly didn’t think much of it, simply going through the motions of the class. When I got home that day, my ankle still hurt, aching whenever I took a step. Running upstairs (y’know, like an idiot), I hopped onto my bed and checked it out. There was no physical damage to the heel, the foot, or even the ankle, so I just dismissed it. That night, going downstairs hurt, as did returning upstairs. I didn’t say anything about it, as I really didn’t want to inconvenience my family by complaining about a little ankle pain.

That morning, I took a few Advil to hopefully ease the aching, as it hadn’t gone away. Without the pain, walking on the ankle was easy. Of course, when the painkiller wore off, the ankle hurt even more. I went to the nurse the next day during gym, and explained the issue in a terrible way, making myself look even dumber than I normally do. Forget this, I’m going to the doctor. In third period, I texted my mom, remarking that I didn’t think my ankle was supposed to be in pain 24/7, and she agreed. She scheduled an appointment for later that day, and I got through the rest of school, still in pain.

When I got to the doctor’s office, I told her everything that had happened, from the popping ankle to what happened with the painkillers (thankfully describing it better this time). After taking a look at my foot, she grabbed a piece of paper.

“You’re going to have to go to someone more important than me to look at this.”

She told me about a local place that did x-rays, and I got an appointment there within a few days. I’d never had an x-ray before, so everything was incredibly foreign to me, but it was still cool. When the x-ray was done, I stunned the woman running it by asking to see them. She handed me a CD, probably thinking I was absolutely crazy for wanting to look at it.

She isn’t wrong.

The x-rays were also forwarded to a sports medicine practice, and I went straight there afterwards. Waiting there was pure agony, as it must have been two hours before we got called into a room. The doctor finally came in at around 6, despite the appointment being set for 4. He asked me about my ankle, looked at it, and made me walk around before asking me to sit back down. Apparently I’d sprained my ankle, and it’s possible that ignoring it had made it worse.

Oops.

A nurse came in after he left, and I picked out one of those really stylish gigantic black boots. I was so curious as to what they felt like, declining an air cast in favor of the hulking brace. Big mistake--the thing was incredibly heavy and awkward to walk in. I walked out of the practice like a freak, swinging the booted foot forward in between normal steps. That night, I stared at it in wonder. I’d only ever seen the contraption, and now I had one.

The next morning began my first official day with the brace. I typically cross my legs, which, with the boot, was a journey and a half. It clunked into the desk, so every time I wanted to be comfortable, it was always preceded by the sonorous sounds of CLANGCLUNKCLANGTHUD.

Gym with the boot was something else. I was still in the gymnasium, but I had to write out an essay about tennis. I was more eager to write about tennis than do gym, and I’m sure that says something about me.

About a month passed, and I was out of the boot. Things seemed fine...until I realized my other ankle hurt as well.