Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Fall From Grace
Falling, or the sensation of, as described in Inception (which I finally watched and now hear booming cello's of doom wherever I go. Thanks Zimmer. I needed that.) gives us a kick that's sufficient enough to wake anyone up from whatever stupor we're in.
I'm pretty sure I wasn't asleep when I tumbled down the stairs at work almost 2 months ago and twisted my left ankle; no slow motion flashbacks either. Just a whole lot of inconvenient pain and suffering.
I've never actually hurt myself much before other than the odd scrape or two as a not-so-adventurous toddler and several deadly papercuts I received in the battlefield of work.
Hence my first official fall (physically I mean, not socially, mentally or career-wise) must be documented in excruciatingly boring detail and much unnecessary excitement!
Note: All falls are only deemed official if it is sufficient enough to cause pain higher than level 4.0 out of 10.0 and require medical attention. Any other fall is deemed to be a wimp-trip and only warrants a wimpy whimper and wallowing in self-pity for 10 minutes.
It would have been great if it were a dark and stormy night so my tale of woe and despair could have an ominous start, but as it were, it was a pretty bright sunny afternoon. Certainly not the the type made for falling on one's ass (now if it were for kicking ass.. ).
I was making important preparations to run out of the office and speed off to several important destinations for rather important meetings/errands. This included several trips to the bathroom and much fixing of my hair. I grabbed whatever was needed and dashed out in not-so-high wedges to traverse the 1 flight of stairs - a common journey I make everyday. I would say I could do it with my eyes closed, but after what happened, the only thing I'll be doing with my eyes closed involves a lot of constipation.
I should also mention that in my delicate arms that are not made for heavy lifting, I was carrying a massive handbag, several paperbags filled with fragile things like mugs and pens, a rolled-up bunting and some envelopes.
Oh, and a 6-foot long mock cheque. Most people would think that the universe was out to get them, but I remain an optimist.
Things were going pretty well as I managed to get halfway down the stairs. "Goodness me," I thought to myself. "I might be able to make it all the way down afterall!"
I could make a living selling famous last words.
I was so close to the end. Like an Olympic sprinter tripping over an opponent's strategically placed foot right at the end of the finishing line, my feet decided to forego all sense of logic and skip 4 steps towards the bottom. Hooray for improvisation, Jen's Limbs. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
By the power of physics (and Grayskull!!!), I fell forward, but landed butt first on the bottom step.
My left ankle was saying "Sharp pain. Sharp pain. Sharp pain," over and over again, so I sat down and did a headcount of anything that might be broken (in particular order): mock cheque, glass mugs, bunting, left ankle, common sense.
Nothing was broken! I would have jumped up and whooped with joy if it werent for that sharp throbbing pain somewhere down below.
As it were, I did manage to get up after a few minutes and went through the day in full Super Hero Mode which involved driving a very manual car, carrying stacks of magazines, attending a photoshoot of sorts and plenty of general walking around.
My ankle felt great!!! Not.
I limped about for a week, and then the pain went away and developed into a lingering sore at the ankle joint. After a month, I could pretty much walk/run around as usual, but my ankle started to feel a little stiff. Cause for worry? But I'm a Super Hero! Our kind don't worry.
Ok fine, so I did worry abit when I realised I still wasn't able to stretch my foot out properly or twist and turn it around like the other ankle could. My left ankle was starting to feel a little bit left out.
So I did what any logical thinking person would do - I decided to ignore it because in my world, all aches and pains go away if you close your eyes and click your heels together three times.
After almost 2 months, several nights that ended prematurely as I limped back to the car in high heels and tripping down some stairs again, I finally decided to have it looked at.
Now I'm a fan of modern medicine, sterile needles, the occasional pill and IV drips, but for something as small as this, everyone told me to go see someone who'd get the job done right without any hassle - a Chinese traditional medicine sensei/tit tar (is that how you spell it? ).
After getting some info from a very reliable source (read: Twitter), I was pointed in the direction of "Oriental Sports Therapy" in Seapark, PJ. It seemed like a pretty popular joint, so I figured what the heck.
First impressions were impressive. Well-lit, air-conditioned, no dodgy seating and the latest A-Team movie being screened in the waiting area - I like what I see. BUT, will it pass the Jen-Test? I was about to find out.
I pushed open the heavy glass doors and walked right to the registration counter (effectively getting in everyone's way of the awesome 3-D scene in A-Team), where I was given a yellow card with a sketch of the human anatomy and a form to fill up.
The nurse (or was she?) marked a huge "X" on the left ankle of the human diagram on the yellow card and told me to take a seat. An "X". Why an "X"?? Isnt that a bad thing? It's usually what they use to indicate where/what needs to be chopped off right?
My name was called. My time had come. My moment was here. My my.
I went into a room, but it wasnt quite a room. A portion of the room was cordoned off by a yellow curtain (I'm assuming there's a bed on the other side of it. Or dead bodies. I'll never know.) and on one side, several chairs and leg rests. Looks pretty clean and decent. I'd have whipped out a UV light to search for old blood stains, but I didnt want to give them more reasons to put me under.
I sat on one of the chairs and a guy came up to me and motioned for me to put my foot on his lap. How forward, kind sir! But I suppose he ought to know what he was doing, so I did.
Then the heavens opened and all was right with the world again - he spoke good English. Score!!! I cant tell you how relieved I was when I told him about my ankle in English and he responded the same!! I was insanely terrified that there would be some miscommunication between us and it would end up with him trying to fix my spleen instead of my ankle. Thankfully, no worries there!
He massaged my ankle abit, tugged at the toes and cracked them about, then proceeded to twist and turn my ankle around at the joint; at this point, I really hoped he knew what he was doing. He then went on to give my ankle an almighty jerk that cracked the joint and almost clean pulled me out of the chair I was sitting in.
After giving me a short lecture on how things could have been worse with my ankle, he went to the back of the room and returned with a bandage filled with some foul-smelling herby paste. He slapped it onto my ankle (it was steaming hot) and bandaged it all up. I was good to go!
Visual evidence.
I unwrapped the bandage around my ankle this morning and washed off the herb-y goo before leaving for work. I dont know if it's a placebo effect or not, but my ankle actually feels more flexible now than it was before. I made an appointment again for this Thursday so if my foot hasn't transformed into a man-eating plant, it should be alright.
There's a lingering herb-y smell about me right now (which is quite comforting omg what is wrong with me), so if you're planning to spring a surprise on me anytime soon, I'd recommend against it.
Oriental Sports Therapy
26 & 28 Jln 21/11B Seapark
46300, Petaling Jaya
(They close at 8.30pm on weekdays s'all I can remember)
P.S. I forgot to get the name of the guy who fixed my ankle. He wears glasses, if that narrows it down.
P.P.S. I might also name this post "Blog Vengeance".
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