The taxi driver offered to get a wheelchair when he dropped me off at the emergency room but I said No worries, I’m only a little bit broken.
My injury did not even warrant a place in the examination rooms. I sat in the waiting area with my naked foot gingerly perched on top of my shoe, reading magazines that I brought with me.
Two and a half years after moving here I am still endlessly impressed with the medical system. One excellent example: the emergency room is for actual emergencies. My broken bits were not a high priority, but that is reasonable and fair.
During the x-ray I was surprised to find myself on the verge of a panic attack. There was absolutely no reason to be upset, which is probably why I started to shake. If I’d been truly ill or expecting another death sentence I would have been calm and serene.
Three hours after triage my prediction was proved true; the doctor said that no intervention was required but told me to rest and keep the broken toe elevated.
I interpreted this to mean Spend several days dragging recalcitrant children out to see cultural attractions.
I took the visiting teenager to London and showed him Covent Garden, Carnaby Street, the slides at the Tate Modern, the Tower of London, and the desk Marx used at the British Library Reading Room.
The boy is obsessed with Napoleon so we checked out the military tributes and crypt at St. Paul’s. I hobbled up the five hundred odd steps to see the Whispering Gallery and the view from the dome. The tricky bit was getting back down again – the broken toe provided a challenge but worse yet, the wind kept whipping up my skirt. The injury itself is proof of my lack of coordination; it is surprising that I survived the descent down perilous stairs half-hopping, two hands holding my clothing in place.
It would take more than a broken bone to prevent me from fulfilling my duties as a host.