One Step at at Time
I'm screwed. At least that's what the orthopedic surgeon says. Of course, he says it like that's a good thing. And I am grateful. Six surgical steel screws now hold my fibula together. I've been rotated and aligned. Reamed and tapped. Plated and polished. I'm no longer a factory original, but I'm assured I should see good mileage from the aftermarket parts.
Living without a leg is an amazingly annoying experience. Because whenever I want to move it's not the leg I miss -- it's my hands. Both are filled with crutches, making it completely impossible to carry anything at all. As I've started to feel better the last two days, I've resorted to hopping about my office so I can start filing all the paper I've processed in the last week. But I'm getting ahead of my story ...
Literally seconds after I uploaded the last installment of this story to CrystalOak, Terry bundled me into the car and we drove to Timp Hospital. Terry admitted me (I wasn't about to admit anything) and I soon found myself modeling a really comfy summer number in pastel green. The breezes were so refreshing! A pert child shot me full of secret sauce, then wired me with enough gadgets that I could get HDTV on the back of my eyelids. Then a distinguished-looking chap showed up and jauntily asked me how much of the upcoming show I wanted to tune in for. He said he could give me a spinal block so I wouldn't feel a thing, but I could stay awake and swap "knock-knock" jokes with the surgeon. Or he could make me drunk (his words) so I'd be vaguely aware of what was going on, but would feel little and remember less. Or I could just take a nice little nap, and catch the 15-second summary on the 10 o'clock news that evening.
Believe it or not, this was a little bit of a dilemma for me. I'd never been operated on before, but long ago I was given general anesthesia as a child A doctor in the hospital emergency ward decided to knock me out before he set my right arm the second time I broke it. The anesthesia gave me vivid and very horrible nightmares. At the time I thought I was going to die. The broken arm wasn't a really big deal (it was the third broken arm overall ... and yes, perhaps I am a slow learner) but the memory of strangling on foul gas and fighting to remove the mask remains strong. Still, the thought of watching while my leg was peeled and pinned just didn't sound appetizing. So I opted for the short nap. The anesthesiologist shot something into one of the handy tubes festooning my arms, and halfway through a bad joke he just fuzzed away.
I awoke to the sound of the Utah Jazz losing a basketball game. My throat felt awful, and I seemed to have misplaced my brain. Remarkably enough, though, my left ankle didn't feel much worse than it had when I'd gone to sleep. I thought this was encouraging. It took two days before I came down from the painkillers enough to realize that the "soft cast" I thought I had on my foot was really just an ace bandage around some cotton; not only my bare toes, but my heel, my ankle and the bottom of my foot were all susceptible to any pressure at all through the bandage. But the painkillers masked all that stuff for the first while. I just didn't know what I didn't know.
By Saturday I was ready to come home to my body. I cut the pain meds in half in the morning, then abandoned them in the afternoon. By Sunday morning various pieces were finally filing accurate damage reports. It wasn't as comfortable as pretending I just wasn't there, but at least I could take action on a few of the items and begin reassembling me. A ghost rat had come to inhabit my left ankle, though. He keeps running up & down my lower leg and gnawing on my bones from the inside out at irregular intervals. Most annoying!
By Tuesday morning I had started crawling down the stairs. I spent much of the week in my recliner in my office; mail and paperwork had really piled up in the week I'd been indisposed. I got lots of calls on my cell phone. It was remarkable how much business got solved when I told the caller I was on my back with an elevated uncast broken leg. People immediately said, "Don't worry, I'll take care of this", or "I'll be over in 5 minutes."
Interestingly enough, the kids in the singles ward haven't teased me at all. They've been supportive and kind, helping me around, carrying books, opening doors. They made me some really funny and sweet get-well cards.
And my family has been great. Charleene stopped by and visited with me on Saturday. Gary and Donna brought love & goodies on Sunday afternoon. And Janice brought chocolate-covered nuts and 4 good books on Sunday evening. David & Susan stopped by on Tuesday and brought a fish bowl full of caramels. And once the word got out in our ward, we were inundated with get-well wishes and hundreds of thousands of delicious calories. So I have been well-loved by friends and family. And it really does help.
The pain in my leg has faded from fiery to dull, and as long as I keep it elevated and occasionally iced it seems to be doing pretty well. It twinges at odd intervals, just to let me know that I'm not yet forgiven. When I first lower my leg to stand, the blood pressure shoots up and it throbs like thunder. If I leave it down for an hour or two it gets really unhappy and punishes me accordingly.
I return to the orthopedic surgeon this Tuesday. If the swelling has abated (and I think it has) and the wound has closed cleanly then he'll cast my foot. I'm told to expect to wear this cast for 4-6 weeks; during this time I will be on crutches and will not be allowed to put any weight on the broken leg. When the leg has healed sufficiently then this cast will be replaced by a walking cast and I'll spend an additional 4-8 weeks completing my healing.
I'm taking calcium supplements and drinking my milk. I'm improving my gymnastic wiggles as I dress and undress without putting any weight on one leg. I feel like I'm practicing the crane kick from "Karate Kid". Stairs on crutches are the worst. Up or down, there's no good strategy. To get to the basement, I sit down, stick my left leg in the air, and thump on down. It helps to pretend I'm three again.
Yep, I'm still young at heart. And young at head. After all, it got me here!
It'll get me through.
Keep your head and your heart going in
the right direction
and you will not have to worry about your feet.
-unknown