Exactly two weeks before I left the LAX airport for Kenya, I sliced open my heel. At school, I was moving a big rolling bin down a hill and it got going too fast and cut my heel. Now, me being my traditional self, completely disregarded how much my injury hurt while subconsciously keeping in mind that I was leaving for Kenya for the summer in just two weeks. Instead of admitting that it was fairly deep, and that it hurt, I simply hopped over to the grass while sort of yelping “I’m wounded!”. Now, you need to understand that I say, “I’m wounded” when I have a paper-cut—I just really like that word… (I’ve never actually used the word wounded in the intense circumstances in which the word suggests—you know, like a gunshot wound or something). The only time I have ever used it in context, I said it so casually that no one (including myself) believed me. I laid there in the grass and asked for my phone so that I could take pictures of my wound, and avidly begged and tried to persuade my boss from forcing me into going to the doctor. I mean, I couldn’t walk, and I had a hard time hopping because I was so dizzy, but the doctor? Come on now, people only go to the doctor when they are badly injured, right? Anyways, I went to the doctor and they made me get stitches—which I also argued about… I was told that I could get the stitches out in 10 days, and that by the time I left for Kenya, I should be good as new. I didn’t blog about my injury before because it wasn’t a big deal… it was just a flesh wound! Haha
So, I got my stitches out and still couldn’t walk, but I figured it was just bruised; therefore, I got on the plane and left for Kenya. While I was there, I had a blast I absolutely love Africa. My foot wasn’t healing though, so my doctor at home decided I may have hurt my Achilles. They made me come home, and even though it broke my heart, I believe it was a good thing. I got an MRI, and my Achilles is sliced in half. It is a 50% slice directly horizontal across my Achilles (meaning my Achilles is half as thick as usual—which makes sense why I can’t walk very well or run at all). I am frustrated that I am home for the summer instead of in Kenya, but at the same time, I am glad it is torn because I was starting to feel like a wimp because the doctors kept telling me that I should be fine and dandy.
Well, there you have it. I am home. I am no longer in Kenya. And while I am distraught at this fact, I believe I am here for a reason. I know there is things I need to work on that I have been running from for years. I ran to Mexico to work in an orphanage, to Kenya to work at a school… and I always run to multiple jobs and friends and many other things when I feel like I may have to actually deal with my issues because I literally cannot run any longer.