Captain Ahab strikes

I should have seen it coming all year. The unemployment, inclement weather, multiple traffic incidents and the numerous other spiteful acts that Chicago has committed in a desperate attempt to destroy my will and kill my drive. All of those things would have made a lesser woman quit altogether, but not me! They have glanced off my glistening white back. Until today, when I was brutally harpooned by my apartment.

I had a dream last night that both of my feet were chopped off. The dream was much more convoluted and twisted than simply that but suffice it to say, it disturbed me enough that I decided to tell my roommate Amy this morning. Literally, the moment I finished telling her, I pivoted in my dining room to go get dressed and impaled my right foot on a 6 inch piece of floor board that had decided to permanently lodge itself in my foot.

This post is not for the faint of heart.

I promptly started screaming "I am not okay!" as Amy had the presence of mind to slap my hand away from trying to pull the thing out. It's hilarious now but I can't properly articulate the physical and mental anguish of seeing that puppy burrowed in my delicate alabaster. Anyway, we decide to go to the ER, well Amy decides and I, still hollering, start towards the door. To those of you who don't know, I live on the third floor of a building with no railings. So using Amy as a crutch, I haphazardly hop down the three flights and free-hop (should be an Olympic sport) to the car. 10 blocks and a billion hysterical sobs later, I am admitted to the ER and start getting pumped with morphine and that stuff.

Honestly, everyone was so nice, and Amy was a total rockstar. The only thing I hated, besides the excruciating pain, long wait before surgery, nausea and IVs, were the LAME med students who were so excited to see this piece of wood protruding from my foot that they almost wet themselves. That is hardly an exaggeration. Every 5 minutes or so, a med student would pop my curtain open, delightedly exclaim how bad it looked and give me their prognosis based on their 2 semesters of med school.

The morphine was great but I didn't get into surgery until 5 hours later. The surgery went great-- they cut me open and gave me 20 lovely stitches on the bottom of my foot, all of which I was oblivious to, thanks to the killer anesthesia. It made me nauseous and I freaked them all out by developing chills and puking but hey, you can't have everything. I was released 3 hours later with a bulky, numb and useless foot, instructions not to drive for 3 weeks, and equally useless crutches.

All of this time I was missing my second day of work and thanking God that I purchased health insurance this month.

Ok ok. I know that all hipster blog cred stems from the ironic, insincere and banal but I must be honest in admitting that I am so frustrated, scared and in pain. I'm frustrated because I don't know how in the world I will survive on crutches when I live on the top floor. My boss met me at my house to give me the stuff I missed and Matt had to literally carry me up the steps to meet him. It was frustrating, humiliating and I am miffed as to how I am going to do it myself. I am scared because I don't know how I'm going to pay for the taxi I will have to hire everyday to take me to and from work, not to mention my hospital bills. I am in pain because my effing foot was impaled and all they gave me was Tylenol with codeine. I want to leave and not look back.

Eff you Chicago.