Crutches

I went to the emergency room to have my ankle checked out. It now looks like it was worth being responsible and get a good, expensive English insurance policy. In this country they are not joking about insurance or the lack thereof. This is the third time I've experienced U.S. ER; there was the Boston visit for swollen foot on account of a long plane ride, then the Cambridge visit on account of hysterical passing out. I have done the Brits twice, for swallowing pills and the second time for almost severing a finger while dishwashing on a stormy Sunday night about two weeks after my ex-husband moved back to Hungary. (There was one visit to the Hungarians - a mere panick attack; technically there were two visits: one to a small village doctor's office where they had no sympathy for my alleged heart-attack, and then to a hospital later, just to make sure.) So I am pretty experienced, but I have yet to encounter anything that remotely resembles my one-time favorite series set in Chicago.

It was calm and relatively painless, although I caused a little consternation when the Indian-looking triage nurse asked me about my religion and I informed her that I had none. She asked me three more times, just to make sure. Now, for the first time in my life, I am walking - or rather moping around the house - with the help of my brand new, wooden crutches (incidentally, we already had a pair of crutches in the house, but those were designed for a 5-foot person) and my brother prefers to serve me food and drinks just so he doesn't have to put up with my pathetic hopping blocking his way. It is not that bad, after all.