I fractured my left fibula. Snapped it right above the ankle. A clean break.
Mitch and I were in the Bahamas celebrating (courtesy of his company) the fact that he exceeded his 2008 sales goal. We had several days of cocktails and clear ocean water and cocktails and good food and more cocktails and snorkeling etc. etc. Then we decided to peel our salt-laden swimsuits from ourselves and put on some lovely evening wear for a teppanyaki dinner with his colleagues. We were gussied up and looking good when I stepped on a wet stair, bounced down several stairs on my booty and landed square on my underturned ankle. Apparently I shouted a few shock-induced obscenities while stars warning of passing out swirled around my head. Mitch and a very nice man helped me to a chair and eventually Matthew the porter found a wheel chair and rolled me through pockets of staring diners to our room. I decided not to go to the Bahamian hospital because, since I could move it, it wasn't broken, right. I walked on it for two more days, through 3 airports, into and out of the ocean, around Sandals, out to the dock, and up and down stairs. No problem, just a sprain, right?
Yesterday, back in the states, I went to the doctor who, after the x-rays said "would you like to see a picture of your broken fibula?" Oops. Guess I shouldn't have been traversing the oceanfront. Lesson learned. If I injure myself to the point of seeing stars, I should then see the doctor. I'd like to thank Mitch for being such a trooper and supporting me. You are great, baby. I love you.
Jennifer
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