On Monday, May 12, Marga sprained her ankle. She went to the gym, for the first time in May, paid her entire May subscription fee, and half way through her aerobics class, she sprained her ankle. Somehow, she managed to jump up and land with her right foot on top of her left, thus twisting the right foot so that the outside part of the foot hit the floor. She heard a loud crack! and screamed out in pain.
She hopped back home, stood in the doorway, and yelled for me to get the car keys and take her to the emergency room. The emergency room doctors didn’t do much but wrap it up in a bandage and tell her not to walk on it. Duh.
A couple days later, I knocked on our neighbor’s door. The guy that lives in the apartment next door, I had learned from one of the nosy old ladies in the building, works as a massage therapist (masajista) in Laredo. It turns out that he was exactly the person Marga’s foot needed. He poked, prodded, asked specific questions about where it hurts and during what movement. After about five minutes of examination, he explained exactly what had happened, what to expect as far as pain and bruising, etc. It’s so nice to see an expert in a field that you have no clue about being so confident in his element. He said that if the pain didn’t go away after a week or so, then there could be more serious damage, like a broken tendon.
Two weeks later, that turns out to be the case. She can now walk a bit and drive herself to work (thank god!), but she’s still in a lot of pain. Marga went to the doctor and has been referred to radiology sometime soon.
About this time, Marga, who rarely ever mentions anything that I write about on this blog, said to me, “What? My foot doesn’t deserve a blog entry?!” The truth is that it did deserve an entry to reach the point we have now. Because what I really want to write about is what follows.