Damn that step! I managed to break a toe the other day—like a wonderfully perfect idiot.
There I was, coming down the stairs, “la-la-la,” thinking about food, my hands full of random crap, the wrong glasses perched on my nose, and my eyes locked on the hallway ahead. Not on my feet, not on the steps—just straight ahead, as if I were some regal ghost gliding effortlessly to the floor below. Spoiler alert: I am not a ghost. I am a clumsy meat sack bound by the laws of physics. And physics, as always, was feeling particularly vengeful that day.
BAM.
Next thing I know, my arse is on the floor, my toe is screaming bloody murder, and I’m mentally replaying my life choices. Was my plan to float gracefully to the ground floor like some kind of Victorian apparition? Because if so, I really half-assed the execution. Ba dum tss.
Within seconds, my family descended upon me like rabid Black Friday shoppers spotting a 75% off TV. Thomas practically exploded out of the bathroom, pants half up, frantically mumbling, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” which, under any other circumstances, would have been deeply concerning. My youngest came flying down the stairs, scanning for damage like an EMT trained in household disasters.
Now, mind you, this was not our first stair-related catastrophe. We’ve all taken turns bouncing down a few steps like poorly designed crash test dummies. Normally, these incidents sound like an overstuffed laundry load tumbling in the dryer—thuds, flops, and maybe a disgruntled grunt. But this time? This time, there was a full-fledged BAM!, followed by some truly Oscar-worthy wailing.
So, yeah. Broken toe. Moral of the story? Stairs are traitorous bastards. Also, maybe I should start using my eyes for their intended purpose.
The Self-Diagnosis
So, there I was—on the ground, writhing in exquisite agony, all the toes on my right foot neatly folded under me like a poorly executed origami project. Naturally, I began my assessment. Was anything broken? Well, considering the searing pain shooting through my foot, probably. But let’s not jump to conclusions—I’m a professional.
Over the years, my family has inexplicably entrusted me with all their medical concerns. I have successfully diagnosed and treated a wide range of ailments, from mysterious rashes to suspicious bumps, rogue Lego extractions, and the occasional “Mom, I swallowed something weird.” So, am I practically a doctor? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t my calling—it was thrust upon me. That, combined with an unhealthy amount of medical dramas consumed over the years, made me feel more than qualified to diagnose myself.
I recalled a simple, foolproof medical fact: Broken toes cannot be moved. Ergo, if you can move your toes, they are not broken. As we say in the medical field—easy peasy. With great confidence, I tested my toes. They moved. It felt like I was being stabbed with hot knives, but hey, movement! Therefore, by the power vested in me by Google and Grey’s Anatomy, I concluded: not broken. Diagnosis complete. No need to panic, no need for WebMD, where a sprained toe would somehow lead to an inevitable death by toe gangrene. Crisis averted. Thomas, my ever-practical husband, suggested the ER. But I was steadfast in my expert opinion—definitely just a sprain. Ice it, elevate it, problem solved.
Fast-forward to the next morning. Not only could I not put any weight on my right foot, but my three middle toes—which had bravely borne the most impact—had inflated like cocktail sausages and turned a charming shade of corpse. We’re talking a lovely blend of bruised eggplant meets Behr’s Loft Space grey. I won’t lie—this was mildly discouraging. Again, Thomas suggested the ER. Again, I refused. It’s not that I feared bad news—I just suffer from ER Imposter Syndrome. I can’t shake the feeling that unless I’m actively bleeding out or missing a limb, I have no business being there. Also, Emergency Rooms come with criminally long wait times, and I am very easily bored. So, I stood my ground—on one foot. Like the absolute martyr that I am.
The Call
Something had to be done if I ever wanted to, quite literally, move forward. So, we called the Ontario Health Hotline at 811. Now, you’d think this would be a simple task, but let me tell you—dial one wrong number, and suddenly, you’ve summoned an army of emergency services straight to your door. A fleet of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances will descend upon you in a perfectly choreographed chaos drill. Honestly, if you struggle to dial 811 correctly, you probably do need all those services anyway.
Once we finally got through, we spoke to a nurse about my poor, mangled toe. The call involved twenty minutes of intense medical interrogation, featuring my personal favourite question:
“Was anything amputated?” Excuse me? I thought this was a simple toe injury, not the aftermath of a medieval battle. If I had misplaced a limb, I probably wouldn’t be on the phone casually answering questions—I’d be passed out in a pool of my own regret.
Then came the bombshell. Instead of the usual “Call your family doctor immediately” script, the nurse hit us with the red alert recommendation: Go. To. The. ER. If you’ve ever called 811 before, you know they never say that. They usually try to clear the ER for the truly broken and bleeding, which makes sense. But this time? This time, I got official permission. I felt like I had been granted VIP access to the most exclusive club in town—except instead of bottle service, I was getting a long wait and a tetanus shot.
So, next thing I know, I’m hopping down the stairs on my left foot like some kind of determined, one-legged kangaroo. Genius, right? What could possibly go wrong? I couldn’t put any weight on my right foot, and we were already on our way to the ER—so, really, the bar for disaster had already been set pretty high.
The Ride
Outside our place, an Uber was waiting—Thomas had ordered one. This was a first for me. I had never taken an Uber before, and deep down, I suspect I might be anti-Uber. Something about getting into a car with a complete stranger, with little to no candy being offered, just doesn’t sit right with me. I prefer cabs. Call me old-fashioned, but if it ain’t broke…
Cab drivers aren’t strangers; they’re dedicated professionals. Their cab is more than just a vehicle—it’s their second home, and you are but a temporary guest. You get to know them the moment you step inside. Their name and license number are lovingly taped to the back of the front passenger seat, staring at you like a name tag at an awkward networking event. If you’re lucky, the photo even matches the driver, and just like that—you’ve made a new friend.
Want to get to know your new best friend even better? Easy. Just take in your surroundings. What kind of music is he blaring? Does it match the vibe of his interior décor? (Because yes, there will be decor). Has he had lunch yet? Is he having lunch right now? What’s his beverage of choice? You’re already learning so much. Does he smoke? Well, technically, he shouldn’t—but there’s always that lingering scent of just one quick cigarette between rides. The windows will be open, even in the dead of winter, and you will find yourself questioning whether he has hyperthyroidism. Medical mysteries brought to you by your local cab ride.
The Emergency Room
Ah, the ER—where patience isn’t just a virtue, it’s a survival skill.
As expected, the waiting room was filled with the usual suspects: elderly folks with various injuries being shuffled around by their younger, enviously healthier family members. Some looked deeply concerned. Others had the unmistakable “Well, this ruins my evening plans” expression. And then there were the ones who had clearly been dragged here against their will, convinced that they could have just “walked it off.”
Thomas, ever the hero, helped me hobble to a seat before getting in line to speak to the mysteriously absent reception nurse. For ten minutes, we sat in medical purgatory, wondering if the nurse had been raptured or just really committed to her break. And then, like a mirage in the desert, she appeared—clipboard in hand, ready to take down the details of the first patient in line: Karen. Not her real name, but trust me, she earned it. You’ll see why in a moment.
Karen was not having it. She had arrived with her mother, an older woman sitting next to me, who, might I add, looked far worse than I did—not bragging, just stating facts. One of her arms was properly inside her jacket sleeve, while the other was just… dangling freely underneath. (It was unclear if this was a fashion choice or a structural issue, but either way, concerning.)
Karen, however, was laser-focused on the real injustice here: having to wait ten entire minutes before speaking to a nurse. Outraged, she loudly informed everyone within a 10-foot radius that this process needed to be improved. There was too much waiting. Vulnerable people should be seen immediately. This was unacceptable!
Now, at first, I thought, You know what? She’s got a point. Maybe this place does need some efficiency upgrades. But then, the nurse calmly asked, “When did the accident happen?”
Last. Night.
Oh, so you couldn’t wait 10 minutes today, Karen, but last night, you were in absolutely no rush to bring your poor, injured mother to the hospital? Fascinating. The hypocrisy levels were off the charts.
Honestly, if you ever want quicker service at the ER, let me give you a proven strategy:
- Make sure your accident qualifies as a life-or-death situation. Not that hard, I promise. Just Google your symptoms on WebMD, and within five minutes, you’ll be convinced you have 12 terminal illnesses and should have died yesterday.
- Call an ambulance. Sure, it’s a little dramatic, but hear me out:
- First-class service.
- Reclining seats.
- Speedy, traffic-free transport.
- An attentive paramedic who is contractually obligated to care about you.
So, moral of the story: If you’re gonna panic, panic properly. Karen, take notes.
The Blue Zone
After a brief but deeply bureaucratic chat with the reception nurse, I was directed to the elusive Blue Zone. Thomas, ever the responsible sidekick, insisted I take a wheelchair for the journey. And honestly? Excellent call. The Blue Zone was so far away I half-expected to need a passport stamp upon arrival. Hopping there on one foot would’ve been my villain origin story.
But let’s be real—the best part? Being wheeled around was fun as hell. My inner child was thriving. I half-expected someone to start making race car noises as we zoomed down the hall. However, in our haste, we grabbed a wheelchair with no foot pedals (why do those even exist?). So, instead of gracefully cruising along, I spent the entire ride awkwardly hovering my feet like a panicked Disney princess trying not to step on lava. Dignity? Gone. Fun? Absolutely. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
When we finally arrived at the so-called Blue Zone—which, plot twist, was just the X-ray Department—I was immediately served a fresh, steaming plate of humility. In my mind, I had just rolled in like a VIP, the tragic yet charming protagonist of my own medical drama. In reality? I was a dishevelled goblin in a pedal-less wheelchair, gripping my dignity like a raccoon protecting its last stolen French fry.
And then I saw the other patients. Instantly, I knew I was a fraud. The least injured person had a full leg cast, no wheelchair, and was just raw-dogging life while I sat there snug in my little Ugg booties, comfortably chauffeured around by my doting husband. If there were an ER hierarchy, I wasn’t just at the bottom—I was in the basement, filling out paperwork to apply for residency.
After about 20 minutes, the real entertainment arrived. A nurse rolled in with a stretcher, carrying a middle-aged man completely covered in a blanket except for his head. Suspicious. What secrets did this blanket hold? I needed answers. The mystery patient—let’s call him Jerry—was accompanied by a friend, whom we shall dub Craig. Unsurprisingly, Jerry’s gurney VIP pass meant he skipped the line and was wheeled straight into X-ray. (Ambulance perks, no doubt.) But just as I was contemplating my own life choices, we all heard it—
“AAAAAAHHHHH!”
Um. I don’t know much about medical imaging, but I’m pretty sure there is no screaming in X-rays. Moments later, the deeply exasperated nurse emerged, peeling off her gloves with the energy of someone who was one inconvenience away from quitting her job forever. She looked at Craig and sighed, “Your friend is being uncooperative.” Yeah. We got that. But how, exactly, does one be uncooperative in an X-ray? You literally just lie there while a machine takes pictures of your bones from a respectful distance. Through some discreet eavesdropping (fine, I was full-on listening in), I discovered that something had pierced Jerry’s hand, and it was now broken—making it impossible for him to lay it flat for the X-ray. So, being the noble sidekick that he was, Craig volunteered to go in and provide moral support. Whatever pep talk Tom gave must have been legendary, because a few minutes later, the X-ray finally happened with minimal screaming. (Growth!)
At last, it was my turn. I entered the X-ray room, performed my best no-screaming routine, and within minutes, we were wheeling to the Green Zone for my final diagnosis. Would my expert self-diagnosis hold up? We were about to find out.
The Green Zone
The Green Zone also had the usual lineup of the walking wounded—mostly broken old people patiently waiting to fix yet another thing in a long list of things that would never quite heal right. Among them, one man stood out. He was there, loyally accompanying his wife, and had to be at least in his late eighties—if he was being generous with the math. Honestly, bravo, sir. Way to hang in there. At this point, he wasn’t just aging; he was actively defying time out of sheer spite. I caught myself staring. He was a skeleton of his former self—more literally than not. When his wife called for him, he stood immediately and hurried to her side. Well, hurried might be a stretch—he was moving as fast as he humanly could, but from my vantage point, it was all happening in slow motion, including his breathing. In my head, I could hear my mother’s signature wisdom: “You see that? Poor thing—moving as fast as he can to outrun death.”
Now, the Green Zone wasn’t exactly spacious, so my wheelchair quickly became an inconvenient obstacle. I asked Thomas to park me somewhere out of the way. He begrudgingly wheeled me over next to the garbage bin and muttered, “I really hope someone heard you tell me to do this. Otherwise, it looks like I’m just stashing my wife next to the trash.”
I waited for my turn, cozily nestled next to a bin labelled hazardous waste—a true VIP experience—while Thomas attempted to juggle work. His phone was practically having a panic attack with nonstop pings, yet he stubbornly refused to leave my side. (Sweet? Undeniably. But also—Sir, are you the backbone of an entire corporation, or is this just really dedicated husbandry?) To make things even better, every time we moved to a new colour-coded zone, he had to re-register with the hospital Wi-Fi by filling out the exact same stupid form. Because if there’s one thing hospitals love, it’s slapping a fresh coat of red tape onto an already frustrating experience. As I sat there, embracing my fate, I found myself utterly captivated by my only source of entertainment: a small, germ-ridden child, gleefully touching everything.
Timmy.
Timmy was kneeling at the play table, fully engrossed in the noisiest toy ever invented—the wooden bead maze. You know the one. It’s in every waiting room in the world, because IKEA designed it and named it Barnvakt (Swedish for babysitter, probably). The goal of this contraption is to develop fine motor skills—but Timmy had discovered its true purpose:
Maximum. Noise. Production.
He clanged those beads together with the intensity of a blacksmith forging a sword. Over. And over. And over. The sheer dedication was almost admirable—almost. But here’s the real kicker: little Timmy had a deep, raspy cough straight out of a Dickens novel. A true mystery illness. One could only speculate what exotic strain of plague he was so generously bestowing upon us. Thankfully, he wore a mask. Unthankfully, it was about three sizes too big and spent more time dangling uselessly off his chin than actually covering anything. Every few seconds, he’d let out a hearty hack—completely unfiltered—because, as we all know, sharing is caring. His parents? Completely unbothered. Probably because they had already caught whatever Timmy was serving.
Thank God I was wearing a mask.
The Diagnosis
Finally, it was my turn. We met with the doctor, who was in an absurdly good mood. It seemed like she had dodged the worst of the morning’s cases and landed the golden ticket—me and my dumb little toe. She asked how it happened. Ever eager to assist, Thomas blurted out, a little too quickly, “She fell down the stairs.”
Perfect. Just the exact phrasing you want to use when trying not to sound like an abusive spouse. The doctor immediately looked at me for confirmation. I smiled and reassured her, “Yeah, I missed a step.” Thomas smiled, too. We both exuded positive, non-criminal energy. Because what can I say? We’re charming, delightful people. Satisfied, the doctor pulled up my X-ray.
“Well, look at that! You broke it!”
Excuse me, what? I was shocked. My world was turned upside down. How could I have been so wrong about my own foolproof diagnosis? My inner adult was relieved—at least my trip to the ER wasn’t for nothing. But my inner child? Absolutely thrilled. This was a new story to tell. A tale to be nurtured and exaggerated over time. I had broken a bone! I had never broken anything before! This surely meant a cast, which meant drama, which meant pity and attention. I braced myself for the next steps.
“So what happens now?” I asked, ready for the medical gauntlet. A toe reset? A cast? Months of bed rest? The doctor, completely unbothered, just shrugged.
“We’ll just tape them up. Should take about six weeks to heal.” Tape? That’s it? Just… tape?! The doctor must have seen my visible disappointment because she quickly added,
“I’ll get the nurse to do it. Give me a few minutes.” And just like that—she breezed away. I turned to Thomas, shell-shocked.
“Tape?! What kind of advanced medicine is this?” But Thomas—relieved beyond belief—just patted my shoulder.
“See? Not so bad. The nurse will tape it up.”
Not so bad?! I broke a toe! For all practical purposes, it was a severed limb, barely held together by a shred of outer skin! And then came the nurse. Holding exactly two pieces of gauze and a roll of tape that looked suspiciously like the kind I use to wrap Christmas presents.
“Is that it?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That’s all I need?”
“Mhm.”
Apparently, this was called “buddy taping”—a highly advanced medical technique that boils down to duct-taping your busted toe to its unsuspecting neighbours and hoping for the best. Essentially, it’s the orthopedic equivalent of a drunk guy being propped up by two reluctant sober friends, just praying he doesn’t take them all down with him. Underwhelming. The nurse wrapped me up and gave one final instruction:
“Do this after every shower.”
With my bad back, this meant one thing—Thomas was now the chief medical officer of Toe Operations, whether he liked it or not. He immediately snapped into action, bombarding the nurse with detailed questions about the correct technique because if there’s one thing Thomas loves, it’s instructions. This is a man who would read a manual on how to eat an apple if it came with one—just to make sure he was doing it right. Meanwhile, I, a child of immigrants, have been reading instructions my whole life and am deeply over it.“OK, I got it. Thank you.” Thomas confirmed, pocketing the extra gauze and tape, probably already making a mental note to restock at Shoppers if we ran out. And just like that—my first broken-bone journey ended with nothing more than a glorified Band-Aid and a deeply invested husband.
The Epilogue
A few weeks later, I went for a follow-up with my family doctor, who had also received copies of the X-rays. And guess what? After a second look, it turns out I never actually broke my toe. That’s right—zero fractures, just a whole lot of drama. Take that, so-called “experts!” I knew I was right all along. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some very important gloating to do.