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Robin Hebb.

writer, performer, cool girl.

 

Casserole Foot.

Casserole Foot.

Artwork by iejvxr

I woke up on Monday and I thought:

I’m fucking killing it

On Monday I woke up and I thought:

Look at what you’ve done in such a short amount of time.

On Monday when I woke up I thought to myself:

You’re unstoppable.

On Monday I woke up and paused.

Monday was the one year anniversary of my bike getting stolen.

Monday was the anniversary of shit starting to hit the fan for me.

Monday was the anniversary of things getting difficult.

Monday was the anniversary of the beginning of the bleakest time I’ve ever gone through… yet.

On Monday I woke up and felt anxiety.

I have been living cautiously the past little while. This winter I did some major reevaluating about what I wanted out of life, and I went out and got it. Through making big choices and having unwavering perseverance I finally started to get what I wanted all this time.

The dust has just begun to settle but I’m fearful of that scary metaphorical wind picking up again so soon.

I’ve been waiting for the ball to drop. I’m anticipating having the rug pulled out from under me.

It seems happiness makes me feel a little uneasy.

On Monday night I opened up my kitchen cupboard and a heavy glass casserole dish fell directly onto my foot.

Heat rushed to my face, my vision tunnelled, my palms got sweaty and my stomach knotted.

I thought for sure I was going to vomit.

It was the kind of pain that really takes time to set in almost like your body refuses to accept it right away.

“Lol, no thanks!”... is what I imagine my brain said to my foot.

It was a slow burn.

My first instinct was to ignore it.

A classic Robin move.

“If you act like you’re not in pain then you won’t be” is shit logic.

Nevertheless I stuck to the plans I had and walked 30 minutes to the comedy club on my sore foot.

I went to bed on Monday night feeling confident that when I woke up on Tuesday morning I would be fine.

The only problem is, I didn’t go to sleep on Monday night.

I laid there determined to get my mind over the matter that I was in pain.

I laid there and watched my foot grow into something that looked less like a foot and more like moldy loaf of bread. Rectangular and blue.

I put a bucket of ice water next to my bed, laid on my stomach with my foot dangling off the edge so I could dip my toes carefully into the water. I kept my mind occupied by watching videos on my phone of the cast of Riverdale playing dumb talk show games.

By the time the sun rose I gave in. I couldn’t put any weight on the foot without having the room spin.

The triage nurse who admitted me into the hospital nearly busted a gut laughing when I told her I was injured by a casserole dish. She continued to giggle while she took my blood pressure. She asked if I had diarrhea in between not so subtle attempts at stifling laughter.

“Should I expect a lasagna to come in later to rule out a concussion?”  

The X-ray technician fondly referred to me as “Casserole Foot.”

The squad at Toronto General Hospital are expert caregivers with quality senses of humour.

They ruled out a fracture.

A blessing and a curse.

No fracture? No drugs.

I was told to keep off of it and to keep it elevated.

“Take it easy for a few days.” the nurse said. “What you have will heal faster than a fracture, but hurts more.”

Not broken but painful.

The only way to heal is to let time pass.

"Also, maybe when you’re feeling better, re-organize your kitchen cupboards so as not to have a repeat injury.”

I see you universe.

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