I broke my leg Monday.
I shot a double leg takedown on a well-known female mixed martial artist, planted on my left leg, and heard “POP, POP, POP” in rapid succession. I wasn’t sure if it was my ankle, my knee or my opponents.
But once I stood up and tried to put weight on my left leg, I realized that the structural integrity of my ankle was in fact compromised.
I rolled off the mats, thoroughly disappointed that I’d be missing what promised to be an epic training session.
A lifetime ago in Spain, I had sprained it severely, and the symptoms were eerily similar.
I had no urgency to get medical attention aside from stealing a pair of crutches and CBD cream from my brother Alex, a freshly minted EMT.
I attended meetings the next day. When asked what happened, I had a few stock answers.
“You should see the other girl.”
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“I’m faking an injury to get out of a celebrity boxing match”
“I identify as paraplegic now. My pronouns are now hobble and hops.”
Eventually, I sought medical attention. My doctor agreed with my sprain hypothesis, but wanted imaging to confirm. I got x-rays, hobbled my way to my truck, but by the time I hit Southbound 99, I got a call from the doctors office.
“Um… so, your fibula is broken and we need you to come back.”
15 minutes later I was in a knee to toe traction boot, thankful I had made the jump from Kaiser to Sutter. For a negligible amount of money, the standard of care is shockingly better. If I’d been at Kaiser the treatment would either be “Walk it off” or amputate.
I’m out for 4-6 weeks. Which is good because it lets me focus on cherries.
So far, I’m healing like Wolverine by ingesting enough collagen to make your yoga teacher jealous. No doubt I will miss training, but have to remind myself that in a sport where the goal is to break limbs and strangle arteries, injuries are a small price to pay for invincibility.