A Series of Unfortunate Events

Normally, I enjoy being frightened. Scary movies, haunted houses, my bathroom scale.

But these past two months have dealt me enough horror to last a lifetime.

The trauma began on December 19th. 

My husband’s e-bike was charging in the garage when the battery suddenly combusted.* Smelling smoke, we raced to the garage and discovered a burning bike. (Like a burning bush, but less biblical.) Smoke billowed, flames rose, and battery acid smoldered. Steve battled the blaze while I ran into the house.

The Good News: We (Steve) put out the fire, saved the house, and only the bike was destroyed. (Anyone looking to buy an e-bike? Seat and battery not included.)

The Bad News: This fire created a domino effect.

While sprinting to retrieve the car keys (my one and only job), I slipped and fell. And not my daily, tripping-over-my-shoelace stumble. This was a Redwood-in-the-forest fall. 

I woke up the next day to an ankle that resembled an eggplant, both in size and in color. Don’t get me wrong, I love eggplant when it is breaded and sprinkled with cheese. But as an appendage? EEK!

This led to a series of X-rays (STAT) and a visit to a foot specialist. Examining the X-rays, the doctor informed me that if I needed surgery, he would NOT recommend himself. He added that he’s only ever performed five surgeries. 

Terrified of being number 6, I fled.**

Since my broken ankle left me in a splint and on crutches, I became overly dependent on my other leg. On Christmas Eve, my left knee gave out.

I’m running out of limbs, people!

No longer able to get up from a sitting position, Steve purchased and installed emergency handrails in the bathroom. It was like The Geriatric Nightmare Before Christmas.

By mid-January, my ankle was healing and I transitioned from a splint into a cast. A cast doesn’t seem frightening, but tell that to my claustrophobic leg. Sometimes in the night, I could hear it shrieking, “Let me out! Let me out!”

If only I knew something far more terrifying awaited me.

I encountered this final terror a few days ago when the doctor removed my cast. He fitted me with a walking boot which I’d been anticipating for weeks.

What I did not anticipate was what my leg would look like after eight weeks of solitary confinement.

In the bathroom, I unbuckled the boot straps and removed the plastic outer layer. I peeled the Velcro lining from my shin, and slowly my gaze traveled downward…

I don’t remember what happened next because I may have passed out from the trauma.

My husband banged on the door.

I also may have been screaming.

“Go away!” I yelled to my husband.

No need to traumatize us both. 

After several minutes, I peeked through trembling fingers at the ghastly sight that lay before me…

I barely recognized it.

Was it even human?

Was this my…

Teeny, Tiny, Very Hairy Calf?

Not since Hannibal, or Voldermort, or my bathroom scale, has there been an image to elicit such hair-raising horror.

If you think I’m exaggerating, you can ask the few people who received a picture*** of my Teeny, Tiny, Very Hairy, Oh-So-Scary Calf.

My daughter’s response when she saw the picture: “Is that the bear from the Revenant?”

Pssh. That bear was Winnie the Pooh compared to this leg.

Regardless, I persevered.

It was an epic battle to the end, and although I didn’t have holy water or magic wands, I did possess an arsenal of Gillette Gentle Glide Razors.

I’m happy to report that my Teeny, Tiny, Super Smooth Calf (and ankle) are doing well, and we are looking forward to a series of fortunate events.

* In all seriousness, do not charge your e-bikes unattended.

** I didn’t actually flee. It was more a brisk hobble. 

*** No, you may not see it.