I’ve been wanting to visit a podiatrist, but I am daunted from seeking healthcare, daunted by my insurer. Humana refuses to thoroughly update their database of “approved” physicians to reflect the reality of post-Katrina New Orleans. This may come as a shock but after the floods of ’05 many doctors simply ain’t there no more.
I became so aggravated that I called Humana and asked them to find a specialist and make an appointment for me. To their credit, they did so in fairly short order.
So Tuesday morning I got in our shiny new rental car and made my way to see an orthopedic podiatrist in the medical district. As long as I was headed in that general direction, I figured I’d go on to the Quarter and catch a haircut from Pat at the Monteleone. It was pouring rain as December chugged on its way to becoming our wettest month on record. I found a place to park on the street, fed the meter, got my haircut, went around the corner to Cafe Beignet for a cup of coffee, petted the big fluffy cat perched under my table, and finally made my way back to the car, scurrying along under the ubiquitous balconies in a vain effort to stay dry.
I reached into my pocket for my key and was distressed to find it wasn’t there. I must have left it in the rental. What if I locked myself out? But no, I told myself, if hte key’s in the car, I must not have locked it, because the clicker is on the keychain.
Then I got to the car, pretty much soaked, and sure enough the door was unlocked. And there was the key, right where I left it.
In the ignition. With the engine running. It had been sitting there unlocked and ready to go for forty minutes.
Sound familiar? It should. Because Xy did the exact same thing a couple years ago. At which time I remarked:
…it’s so stupid it seems like something I would do.
And I guess I’ve proven myself correct on that point.
(Later when I recounted this tale of luck and folly to Xy, her immediate question was: “Are you pregnant?” For the record, I don’t think I am.)
The rain had been positively pounding down the whole time, which is I’m sure the only reason the car was still there. It’s also why I didn’t notice the motor was running when I left it. I could not hear the engine over the sound of that rain.
I went on to the doctor, filled out a vast ream of meaningless paperwork, waited around a while, got some X-rays and finally confirmed that my pinky toe is indeed broken. Yup, I broke my damn toe. Broke it a week and a half ago. I stubbed it on a piece of furniture while trying to change P’s diaper in the middle of the night. (And she didn’t even need a diaper change. Just wanted to get out of the crib.) The only real treatment is to tape the pinky to the fourth toe and let it heal.
I’ve also got some arthritis in my ankle, the one I sprained about a month before Xy’s stunt with the car. And I’ve got some pain in my heel for which the doctor prescribed an orthotic to wear in my shoe. My left foot is just a mess.