I was trying to be athletic. I really should have expected to get injured, seeing as I have the coordination of a one-legged ostrich. It was one of the last physical education classes of the year, and I decided to prove to my classmates that I could actually run without tripping myself and the people around me. 

     Unfortunately for me, it just so happened that we were playing ultimate handball that day, a sport that I play as well as the Jamaican bobsled team performs (not well). As expected, by the end of the game, I had been violently tackled while attempting to catch a ball, and was subsequently sporting an ankle that resembled an eggplant. After facing the humiliation of being wheeled across campus in a wheelchair, and no doubt sobbing a bit along the way, my ankle was bound tightly in an ACE bandage and I was attempting to hobble around on crutches. Since I am like a drunk giraffe when I have both feet on the ground, my week on crutches could easily be described as catastrophic. 

    After a couple of x-rays and much fretting from my parents, I was diagnosed with a severely sprained ankle and was excused from P.E. for the rest of the school year (not that I was complaining). The doctors all assured me that I would heal in a few weeks, and that it was nothing serious, so with a positive mindset, I got a large, ugly brace to protect my fragile ankle while I recovered.  I thought that would be the end of it, I would rest for a few weeks and be back on my feet, good as new, but sadly, nothing ever seems to happen like I want it to. 

   The brace stayed on my ankle through the summer, through parties, weddings, and summer school. I would dress up to go somewhere, in a nice dress with my hair slightly less wild than normal, and yet my image would be marred by the big black brace encasing my right ankle. My sister would go shopping, buying sandals and boots that I couldn’t wait to steal, and yet I wouldn’t be able to jam my bulky protective gear into the shoes. It was ridiculously frustrating, but I could not go anywhere without my ankle protection. 

   Eventually we consulted an orthopedic doctor, fearing that I had torn a tendon or something equally serious. After a few consultations and a terrifying MRI, the doctor decided that I was suffering from severe bone bruising, and that I simply hadn’t given myself enough time to heal. 

   That diagnosis carried me through to late August, when I attempted to run again and very nearly collapsed. I started physical therapy, got excused from P.E. (again, not complaining), and generally shied away from physical activity. And now to the present day, the trusty black brace is still present and my self pity is as strong as ever. So, if you ever see me in the halls, you are more than welcome to shower me with sympathy. I really don’t mind at all.