A Letter to the Man Who Broke My Ankle

Dear Sir,

While lesser souls may wish you become involved in a mangled car wreck or be the subject in a training seminar on catheter insertions, I hope this letter finds you quite well. I know you’re probably wondering what the result of our little incident was the other night, and I wouldn’t feel right leaving you out of the loop. So here goes.

You must recall how you had taken my girlfriend’s sweatshirt that you’d found, when we happened to walk by you on the sidewalk on our way to retrieve it from the fine sandwich establishment we often frequent after our town’s modest 1 a.m. bar close.

As my girlfriend took back the sweatshirt that was rightfully hers, you muttered some not-so-nice statements. Yes, she may have initially described you with a loud phrase that would make George Carlin grimace, but one must still respect the ladies. That is what I tried to explain to you with an expressive hand gesture and a brief statement summing up your rudeness. It’s not that I necessarily wanted to pick a fight; after all you were just a random passerby that found a sweatshirt. I just wanted to finish ridiculing you for getting upset over a women’s sweatshirt.

It was then I turned around to go home with my girlfriend to happily finish our delicious sandwich we’d just purchased. But that is when you had decided that you wanted to take our relationship up just a notch and initiate a scrap of sorts; maybe even an all-out street brawl. You did this, Ryu, by taking a bit of a shove at my shoulder as I was walking away to catch up with my girlfriend, causing me to lose my balance. My hat went off to you, Johnny Cage. Not literally as it was a rare case of me not wearing  a hat. But you know what I mean.

Because I was a smidge intoxicated, I did not regain my equilibrium until I was on the ground when I attempted to, all in one fluid motion, get back to my feet in order to somehow retaliate towards your ill will.

As I tried to get up, the physical capabilities of my right leg became of no use and I stumbled back down to the pavement. I assumed I’d suffered a bad sprain and didn’t think it would stop me from avenging your words and gentle push. So again, I tried to hop to my feet in order to perhaps push you into oncoming traffic or at the very least, mercilessly berate your ancestors. But again, no such luck. This time, I glanced down to my ankle and noticed it was approximately the size of a softball and couldn’t help but notice that my foot was pointing 45 degrees to the right. It was then that I accepted my fate and rested back down on the pavement.

It was also then that I got pretty mad at you. I mean, let’s face it: you had broken my ankle and I couldn’t even capable of taking my shoe off to beat you with it. (It was already too swollen, and it’s not very dramatic to bend down and untie your laces first.) While I wouldn’t consider myself a fighter, I would definitely consider myself a retaliator. (Like how I stole that burly crowdsurfer’s shoe and threw it into the crowd a couple of years ago.) The only thing I had on me this night was what I cherished most: a sandwich. I took the remaining portion of turkey on white and whipped it in your direction.

I quit playing baseball in high school but my aim pleasantly surprised me as not a second later I saw a cloud of lettuce and bits of bread go flying, indicating I’d hit you directly in your ugly face with my 6 inches of sub. I don’t know if it was the velocity of the sandwich or that you simply did not want to get blamed for my injury when the paramedics arrived, but you chose that time to move on down the street.

As I sat there waiting for the paramedics to arrive, I became thankful that I still had a buzz as the alcohol was clearly overshadowing an injury that I knew would soon start to make its presence known. Being in my illustrious-yet-quaint town of Winona, the paramedics told me the closest place I would be able to find a specialist at 1:30am was in La Crosse. About 30 miles later, I arrived at the emergency room in the birthplace of Ed Gein after one of the most sobering car rides in the history of time. And by sobering, I mean, “tell me next time you’re going to drive over a pot hole, goddammit!”

If I had to give someone any type of advice, it would be this: do not go into the operating room after drinking any amount of alcohol. The primary reason for this is because after drinking alcohol you will likely crave some amount of water to rehydrate yourself. The doctors will not let you have any before surgery no matter how many times you ask them.

Less than an hour later I went into surgery to repair my broken fibula/dislocated ankle. I believe the medical term for it was, “holy Christ, that thing is fucked up.” The next day I woke up wearing a very immodest hospital robe and a huge splint on my leg. I opened my eyes to see my girlfriend sitting in the room. I found that weird since it was my school’s homecoming and she had nothing wrong with her, so I’m not really sure why she was there. Apparently, I’m a catch.

Anyway, my doctor chose the time when I was immediately shot up with a few liters of morphine and various other narcotics before he came in and went over what he did to my leg. I immediately forgot and went back to sleep, but would find out later that they had drilled a plate and four screws into my leg in order to stabilize my fibula. Apparently my ankle was not only broken, but dislocated as well. Most nurses just gasped at the sight of it, but I thought nothing of it since it’s hard to really read too much into those reactions when you’re the youngest person they’ve seen in months.

So, Man Who Broke My Ankle On Friday Night, while everyone else was having fun during homecoming weekend on my campus, I was in a hospital where nurses were making me save my urine in a jar and then insist on applying gel all over my pelvis before using some weird sonogram device to detect how much urine remained in my bladder. Football games and binge drinking, it was not.

The next day, I woke up at 5:30 am to the sound of my elderly neighbor in the next room hacking up what sounded to be some bad shellfish and/or lung. Much to my surprise, my girlfriend was still there sleeping on an uncomfortable hospital cot waiting for me to wake up. This confused me to no end because like I said, she had nothing wrong with her, so why was she voluntarilly at a hospital? I’m not saying I wouldn’t do the same for her, but I’m not not saying I would.

Just kidding, I totally wouldn’t.

My third day in the hospital was to be my last. I was told I’d get to leave that day—right after physical therapy. If you’ve never been in physical therapy, it’s basically like getting to test out of a difficult AP class in high school where the class is called “Making Sure You Don’t Fall Down As Soon As You Get Home And Then Sue Us.” Waiting for my chance to demonstrate my crutching skills to the old lady busy telling patients about how she almost took her aging father to the upcoming Green Bay Packers game, I sat next to a couple of elders. Their sparse sprouts of gray hair and double-layered robes (to prevent the revealing of saggy balls) made me feel like I was in a mental ward. After they told me I’d mastered the use of crutches, I got wheeled back to my room and at once got dressed.

A couple of hours later, when the nurses presumably were positive all of the homecoming fun had slowed in Winona, I was allowed to leave. While going from the wheelchair to the car out in the parking lot, I slipped and fell to the ground. Rolling around in agony, I knew right away that I had shattered the metal plate holding my foot together.

Just kidding— but that would’ve really sucked.

I left the hospital with what you call a non-weight bearing splint, meaning I can’t put any weight on it whatsoever. This would be fine if it were a pinky finger, a conscience, or something else that you don’t use very much. But unfortunately, I use my feet. Quite frequently, actually. Next time you do normal events in a day, try and do them without your right leg. Try pouring a bowl of cereal and carrying it across a room. Try showering. It’s infuriatingly impossible.

I’m pretty sure this break is simply just karma for laughing at the less fortunate throughout my life. And now it is full circle, as I hobbled to campus yesterday afternoon on crutches. Being new to the whole tripod form of walking, I was really slow and finally arrived, clothes sopping with sweat. As if the fact that I was handicapped wasn’t disgusting enough, I probably smelled like how the inside of my cast will in three weeks. Now, I’m the person receiving looks of pity and awkward holding open of doors. Always envious of the perceived laziness that the handicapped enjoyed, I decided to get a wheelchair. Surely, that had to be easier than fumbling around on a pair of huge metal poles, right? Nay, it’s really not; there’s a reason that people in wheelchairs have biceps as big as Oprah’s thighs.

But that’s not your problem, Man Who Broke My Ankle On Friday Night, is it? I’m sure you have your own problems so I don’t mean to hassle you. I’m sure you have bills and maybe even homework, both of which you likely ignore in favor of raping children and setting flame to orphanages. But still.

Here’s where I finally get to my point, Man Who Broke My Ankle On Friday Night. I’m not really sure who you are; what your name is, where you’re from, that sort of thing. I’d like to get together sometime—say six to eight weeks, and just chat. How do I get in touch with you? Maybe a post on Craigslist is in order?

“Missed connection – m4m

U broke my ankle Fri. night around 1:00 – 1:15. Huge hospital bill, email me your physical description and let’s hang out sumtime.”

Would that work? Would you respond to it? I just want to talk to you.

I can’t say you didn’t teach me a lesson, MWBMAOFN. You did. You taught me that wasting a sandwich once in a while is actually okay and can feel really good when wasted in the correct manner. You also made me realize that I don’t want to live past the age of 49 or whenever I’ll need to start using a wheelchair or walker for an extended period of time. You also taught me that some people, such as my girlfriend, would rather eat stale hospital food and bathe me with warm, wet rags than experience the glory of normal sleeping hours in a OH MY GOD HOW DID SHE STAND IT?

Let’s get together and break both of your legs catch up!

-JK (just signing my initials - totally serious about the last sentence)