Stephanie Grissom

Stephanie Grissom

I am SUCH a klutz.

Anyone who knows me can verify this. Moreover, they can tell you that the injuries I sustain from my klutziness are the result of such bizarre accidents that it’s laughable.

Really. Because if I didn’t laugh about them, I’d cry. Also, because when I explain how these injuries occur, other people laugh.

As I do love to provide entertainment for others, I am presenting to you the injuries I have sustained just in the last year and answering the burning question, “HOW did you manage to do that?”

Case number one: The Curious Case of the Broken Ribs.

So I went to visit my father, and there were only two sleeping options: couch or floor. As the sofa was taken, I took the floor. I had a nasty coughing fit. And woke up the next morning unable to draw a deep breath. Or a shallow one. A couple of days later, I went to one of my many doctors, who pressed in on my ribs, I screamed in agony. He informed me that ribs shouldn’t move like that and I had broken a few of them. And there is not, in fact, a cast for one’s ribs.

The answer to the question, “How did you break your ribs?”

I coughed too hard.

Case number two: The Curious Case of the Fractured Foot.

So I went to get gas, and all was well for several minutes: insert card into slot, verify pin number, select gasoline type, remove gas cap, remove nozzle ... car rolls backwards.

I did a quick hobble-thing to catch it, somehow got tangled up in the door, and not only got dragged several feet, scraping up my entire left side, but also managed to get my body twisted around so that my car rolled over my right foot, fracturing a few bones there.

Fortunately, the fractures were tiny and only required me wearing this funky-looking shoe-thing for a few weeks, but still.

The answer to the question, “How did you scrape up one entire of your body AND fracture your other foot?”

My car attacked me.

Case number three: The Curious Case of the Near-Gangrenous Wrist.

So my older cat, Miki, got tangled up in my phone’s charging cord, and I went to untangle him. He gave me a crazy-eyed look, reared back, and bit me on the wrist.

Now, when I say he bit me, he sank those kitty-fangs into me so deeply that when I, in reflex, jerked my wrist back, he actually came up off the floor several inches, still attached to my arm.

Once I extricated him, he ran off several feet, only to come back a minute later acting normally. Weird. I took him to the vet the next day, where he was pronounced physically healthy, but diagnosed with the early stages of dementia. And the vet took one look at my wrist and told me to get to a doctor, as by this time my wrist was so big, red, and nasty that it no longer resembled a wrist.

The doc I later saw explained that it wasn’t just infected; the bite had gone so deep that it went into the tendons.

I was given a super-shot of antibiotics, and given scrips for oral antibiotics and pain meds. It still hurts, two months later, and I still have limited mobility.

The answer to the question, “How did your wrist get so infected that it blew up to the size of your bicep?”

My cat is demented.

Case number four: The Curious Case of the Broken Foot/Heel/Ankle.

So, I was walking out to the back porch. My foot folded. I crumpled. X-rays showed I broke (not fractured, snapped) bones in my foot and cracked my heel all to Hades. I was given an appointment in Orthopedics the next morning, which was promptly canceled within five minutes by the Ortho people, who told me they’d seen the X-rays and I was going to have to see the surgeon. In four more days.

And by the way, was I aware that I had also cracked my ankle? Well, no I wasn’t, but that explains why I had a thankle (an ankle the size of my thigh).

Long story short, I don’t need surgery, but must remain in the giant boot that weighs as much as a small child and stay on a (nursing-home) walker for eight weeks if I want to heal properly. This happened last week.

The answer to the question, “How did you break your foot/heel/ankle?”

I was walking.

These are just the biggest injuries. I’ve left a whole lot out, like the time I was unable to walk, leaving me army-crawling through my house. (The answer is, I drove my car — it’s a red one, I’m beginning to think I should name it “Christine.”) Or when I broke my tailbone, also no casts for that. (The answer is, I was using the microwave.) Or when I had an allergy attack and lost my voice for 2½ months, leaving me sounding like, and I’m quoting a friend here, “Demi Moore on a three-day toot.” (The answer is, I sneezed a bunch.)

I am my own “Jeopardy!” category.

In summary, I am a walking, talking disaster. I wrote a few weeks ago about how I thought my boss should spring for a suit made entirely of bubble wrap for me so I could protect myself when out in public; then I broke my foot last week —that’s what I get for joking.

So MY New Year’s resolution is this: Try not to injure anything on the scale that I have this year. Sounds simple, right?

Not if you’re me; a more realistic resolution might be to wake up in my 20-year-old body with a marriage proposal from Hugh Jackman.But I’m sure going to try.

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