Let me tell you about the pain in my ankle ...

Some ailments make me feel old. Like, ones involving joints. They say the joints are the first to go.

My ankle hurts. It started in early November, though it took me several weeks to tie it to the morning that I twisted my ankle while wearing my former-favorite pair of wedge-healed clogs.

At the time I said, “Oh, THAT was close,” because it didn’t really hurt but seemed like it should have. Heh.

After a few weeks I got an X-ray. It showed nothing, which made me happy until the nurse cut me loose to an orthopedic specialist. The first one I called could see me in four weeks. “Four weeks?!" I replied. "What is this, Russia? I hurt my ankle!” I have no idea where my kids learned to whine the way they do.

I freaked because I didn’t know whether I’d ripped a tendon or some such. I didn’t know if continuing to walk 20 miles a day all over this house and the grocery store and the park would doom me to a lifetime of pain or help it heal.

At Thanksgiving, I grilled Brian’s Aunt as I sat with an ice pack on my ankle. A nurse practitioner, she assured me that I wasn’t damaging it further by walking around on it, and that it was probably premature for an MRI anyway. The orthopedic agreed. He diagnosed posterior tibial tendonitis and told me to ice the crap out of it and take Advil until my stomach bleeds. Well, he didn’t say that exactly but, three Advil three times a day? My stomach soon felt like a hollow drum of painful bogosity.

The ice and Advil didn’t work. I switched to Aleve, which resulted in heartburn over Christmas, which mixed well with the chocolate, take-out Chinese and Mexican, batter, French fries, cookies … I think I breathed fire at one point. Even though I had to call Brian to pick up extra strength Mylanta on his way home from work, I was optimistic because the pain was almost, almost gone. I could attempt to exercise.

I completed a 30-minute, beginner, jogging-based workout. About 36 hours later, exactly three hours after I canceled my appointment with the orthopedic, the pain come back. It persisted through the next week as I waited for my new appointment. It persisted even though I'd resumed icing it and taking Advil.

The day of my appointment finally came, it had been six weeks since I saw the doctor. Six weeks without exercise. Six weeks resulting in the pants that I'd just begun fitting into again going back into a bag in my closet.

I got up early, made the boys’ school lunches, got Ava up, dressed, fed and happily watching Dora. I had an extra 15 minutes before we had to leave, enough time for a coffee and some computer time. I was so on the ball that I remembered to go outside and start the car like Brian had warned me to do. It was about 15 degrees outside.

I looked in the basket on top of the fridge for my car keys, looked on my desk and on the kitchen counter before I remembered that I had them attached to my belt loop the night before, and left them with my clothes for the next day, in a pile in the upstairs hallway.

They weren’t there. I spent the next 30 minutes searching the entire house before calling to reschedule my appointment for another week away. The keys turned up that evening on the floor of Ava’s closet. I haven't cried that much since I had the baby blues after John's birth six years ago.

Last Friday I got my MRI. It’s not tendonitis. It’s not a stress fracture. It’s fluid. Random, lonely fluid sitting on the inside of my ankle, near the heal. Making my life hell. Tuesday I got my lovely walking cast, which I will wear for four weeks. However, the doctor said if it doesn’t work in 10 days, then it won’t work. The next step in that case? “I don’t know.” That’s what he said. Can you believe it?

Since he's not the best at explaining things, I called Brian’s aunt again. She said it makes sense that twisting your ankle could cause some renegade fluid build-up, and a walking cast is a reasonable thing to try. She said the next thing will probably be to use a needle to get the fluid out then give me a cortisone shot.

While writing this, I remembered that I found a tiny, lentil-sized lump on my shin of the same leg. So my latest theory is that I have cancer and the MRI wasn’t high enough up my leg to see it. I also have a chest cold and my period. Great week, let me tell you.

My next appointment is next Friday. By then we’ll know if the cast is working, and I’ll try out my cancer explanation on the doc, which he will hopefully debunk.

In the meantime, I’ll try not to think about the C Word, or all those leftover church window candies in my freezer. I will, however, be buying some fat pants.