Okay, that's not exactly what happened. It seemed like a simple plan. I ordered a new futon to replace the really beat up hand-me-down twin mattress and box spring in the upstairs guest bedroom (aka "the room where Luna lives"). I cleaned the room, put Luna and her litter box in the other upstairs room, and when the futon arrived, my lovely friend John came over with his truck so he could help me carry down the old mattresses, take them to the dump, and then put together the futon--mostly in preparation for a visit this summer by my daughter Jennifer, but also because Luna had reduced the already crappy mattresses to this:
|Gee, I don't know why Jenn didn't want to keep sleeping on these...|
|Nice paint job, huh? I did that. That's the landing and the top three stairs.|
I swear, I was being really careful. I've lived in this house for 14 1/2 years and I know how tricky the stairs are. And yet, somehow, while John was at the bottom of the stairs with one end of the box spring, and I was coming down the top with the other end, I missed a step. (Note how tall the steps are. Old farmhouses. They really are trying to kill you.) So my left foot ended up on the landing, while my right foot was still on the second stair up.
There might have been screaming. (John swears there wasn't cursing, but I'm not sure I believe him.) In short, I twisted/torqued/screwed the crap out of my right knee. Ow.
I could tell as soon as I did it that it was Very Bad. Sometimes you just know. We got ice on it right away. I took arnica. Wrapped it with an Ace bandage while we quickly ran to the dump, and stayed off of it the best I could while we put together the futon. [Which wasn't exactly what I was expecting, but after all this, the damned thing is staying. Jenn, you better love it. I'm just sayin'.]
I was pretty sure I hadn't torn anything, although it can be tough to tell. The knee blew up like a balloon (and not one of those fun, party balloons) but didn't turn black and blue, and my former-nurse friend agreed with me that if I went to Urgent Care, they'd basically charge me a lot of money to tell me to R.I.C.E. (rest, ice, compression, elevate) plus take ibuprofen, all of which I was already doing. So this has pretty much been my week:
|Couch, ice packs, borrowed quad-cane, a bunch of pillows. Watching the unseasonable snow come down outside the window.|
My friend John took me to acupuncture on Tuesday, where my acupuncturist (who happens to be a neurologist most of the time) confirmed that I was doing all the right things, and that unless it still wasn't improving in a couple of weeks, there wasn't much point in going to the doctor. Mostly, he said, it was going to take time. Probably a lot of time. Bah.
There have been a few compensations:
|Kitties to keep me company, and good books to read. Thankfully, I have a LOT of books on the TBR shelf.|
I'm finally starting to get a little bit of writing done, and my editor loved the manuscript I sent her for DANGEROUSLY CHARMING, so the copy edits are done on that--whew. Now I'm working on Gregori's story, which we're calling DANGEROUSLY DIVINE, and spending a lot of quality time with ice packs, not getting much of anything done. Sigh.
Did I mention? Don't try this at home, kids.
I think I should do some kind of giveaway. (Even though it will be a while before I can get to the post office to mail it out.) How about the signed book of the winner's choice to the person who comes up with the most entertaining/amusing/clever suggestion for what to do with myself while I'm laid up? Keep it clean, people. I'm injured here.