All of my life I’ve had the most ridiculous tendency for bruising. Maybe it’s my near-transparent skin, most assuredly it has to do with my klutzy nature, but even the smallest ding brings the most horrific bruising. The one at right, for instance, came up last spring after a single needle puncture to draw blood at the doctor’s office. It was a month before the color went away.
This week I have experienced its companion. Last Friday night I took a misstep on my sister’s staircase and dropped down through the air before crashing onto a step and sliding on one badly twisted foot to rest at the halfway point on the stairs. My entire body trembled in shock and pain, and it was a solid hour before I could settle into bed without whimpering from the throbbing in my ankle. I couldn’t put any weight on it the next day, and very little for the first part of this week. Even now, one week later, I am still hobbling about on a very tender (and very ugly) foot. And yet, the bruising makes it look far worse than it actually feels. It’s such a ridiculous ideosyncracy of my body.
After three days:
After one week, all yellow and disgusting: