Brief Recap
I sprained my ankle running with my soccer team. After icing it, I decided to go home. My main job at Monte Vista High was as a biology teacher, coaching was “extra duty.”
My biology room was about one of the furthest-distanced rooms from the PE area. I parked in the faculty lot closest to my classroom. I limped quite a long time/distance in one shoe and one cold, soggy sock.
At the time, I drove a 1968 VW Bug. It was yellow with red Naugahyde interior to mimic Monte Vista’s crimson/gold motif. It had a 4-speed manual transmission. [That sentence is italicized for a reason.]
I opened the driver’s door and tossed my clothes onto the passenger seat.
I climbed in.
I shut the door and put the key in the ignition.
I pushed in the clutch.
. . .
The next thing I remember is snapping my head back while awakening after passing out from the pain from my left ankle while pushing in the clutch.
I realized my ankle was hurt pretty badly. Even with that insight, I had to drive to my doctor’s office, about 2.5 miles away.
In my 1968 VW.
With the manual transmission.
And the pain-inducing clutch.
I used my heel to push the clutch pedal and hiccupped out the driveway. I revved the motor as much as I dared and sifted from 1st gear directly into 3rd gear.
I drove from MV to my doctor’s office without shifting again.
I sped up and slowed to more hiccupping to miss stopping at red lights.
I pulled into the parking area at the doctor’s office and turned the motor off to stop.
I limped into the office.
The receptionist, who—because of my frequent visits—knew me by name, looked up.
“What’d happened this time?” she asked.
“I sprained my ankle.”
“Uh, huh. Just limp on through the door. Go into the first room on the right. I’ll be right in with the most recent of your files*.” *I may have embellished the receptionist’s part, but it’s true in spirit.
Doctor Webster came in. He looked at my swollen ankle and prodded it. I suspect he thought he was being gentle. My ankle disagreed.
“This is too swollen to do anything with right now,” he said. “Even an X-ray wouldn’t be of much value. Go home. Keep your ankle above your waist and keep ice on it for 48 hours. Come back in two days.”
 |
| Pretty much my situation, although I remember my ankle colors as being much more dramatic. |
I did what he said to do. I attended a meeting with the construction committee from my church and the architect we were working with, which made the ankle above the waist part of my assignment tricky. Overall, however, I did pretty well with the ice and the elevation.
Two days later, my ankle was less swollen, but it was a pallet of colors—all blues, black, and purples. Dr. Webster took an X-ray.
“You pulled a tendon loose,” he explained while showing me the film. He pointed at the X-ray and continued, “This might be a bone chip. It’s close enough to where is would have come from that I’m going to put a cast on and take another X-ray in two weeks. If that chip’s still there, we’ll send you to an orthopedist.”
I left the office with a plaster cast.
The next milestone in this odyssey occurred while coaching a soccer match. I was seated with my crutches leaning on the bench beside me. The game was close—typical. I was focused on the field.
“Coach,” a voice broke my concentration, as did the awareness of a hand on my thigh. Even though it was January, temperatures were in the 70s. I was wearing my coaching shorts.
 |
| Even though this is a "football coach" photo, the coaching shorts are the same ones. Notice they are actually SHORT. |
I turned to the player who’d spoken.
“I was going to ask you about something, but I’ve changed my mind,” was the response to my look.
“Okaaay,” I managed.
“Did you know your leg is seriously cold?” he asked.
“What?”
“Really. Your leg is like ice.” When I didn’t react, he added, “Check it yourself.”
I touched my left leg. It felt like my leg.
I touched my right leg. While it, too, felt like my leg, I realized it felt warm.
I touched my left leg again. The player was right—that leg was COLD compared to my right leg.
“Wow, you’re right. Thanks for letting me know.”
The game continued.
We lost. Check two Almanac blogs before this one. You’ll see that was the norm that season.
After the game, I stopped at Dr. Webster’s office.
I was ushered into the same room I’d occupied on the day I broke my ankle. I sat on the high examination table while waiting for the doctor.
He came in and asked what was going on.
I told him.
He touched both legs.
“Is it like this all the time?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Swing your legs up on top of the table.”
I did.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to check the temperatures again.”
Five minutes later, he felt both legs a second time.
“Feel these now,” he directed.
I did. They were the same temperature.
“Swing your legs back over the side of the table.”
I did.
In less than a minute, my left leg was frigid.
Dr. Webster hurried out of the room.
When he returned, he was carrying an electric saw.
 |
| Probably the wrong color, but definitely the correct kind of saw. |
“I’m cutting the cast off, just in case that’s the problem. I’ve admitted you to the hospital. Get someone to pick you up from here and get over there right away.”
I was a cast-less in in-patient at Grossmont Hospital within the hour.
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Almanac: Reprise. A Science Guy's Almanac #4: What John Glenn and I have in common - Re: 2/20/1962
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