It's All in a Day's Work

What was I thinking, actually paying for physical therapy when there are endless opportunities to stretch and strengthen my ankle right here at home???  Cooking, cleaning, laundry, chasing after kids...the list goes on.

I'm thinking of breaking another limb so I can get a break of a different kind.  And this time I'll be in no rush to resume my normal activities.

Deceived with Surgical Precision

I had my final visit with the orthopedic surgeon yesterday. Each visit revealed a little more truth regarding my recovery from a broken ankle.

First visit (pre-surgery)

Doctor: "Your ankle is broken in three places. We can put it in a cast without surgery, but you'll most likely develop arthritis at some point.  I recommend surgical repair with the insertion of a metal plate and screws to pull everything together. You're young...blah, blah, blah...and we want to keep you that way" (My husband was in the room and says there was "and active" in the middle of that sentence, but I had heard all I needed. The surgery was going to keep me young.)

Me: "Okay. Surgery it is."

Second visit (post-surgery)

Doctor:  "Everything looks good. The bones all came together nicely. Sometimes the metal plate bothers the patient and they choose to have it removed after six months."

Me:  "No way in hell is that gonna happen."   (Well, that's what I was thinking.)
 
Third visit

Doctor:  "Everything is looking good." (No idle chit-chat; he's a busy man.)

Me (As he's escaping out the door):  "So when can I expect the swelling to go down?"

Doctor (no doubt thinking, "Damn! I almost made it out the door"):  "I cut my thumb about twenty years ago. It still swells, but I'm the only one who can really tell. Your ankle will probably be the same. It might swell the rest of your life, but most likely you'll be the only one who notices." (For once in my life, it isn't about my vanity. It hurts when it swells.)

Me: "Oh."

Final visit

Doctor:  The x-rays look good. Your ankle will probably never be as good as before, but if it gives you any trouble call me. You might feel pain when the weather changes. And because you have small ankles, you might find that the hardware bothers you. Some people choose to have it removed six months after surgery." (Sorry doc, you'll have to pay for your own vacation home. I can't imagine a scenario where I'll willingly undergo more surgery.)

Me:   "What about the swelling? How long until it goes down more?"

Doctor: "That's probably the best it's going to get."

Me:  "What about the numbness on the top of my foot? When can I expect  that to get better?"

Doctor (doubling back from the hallway):  "When we cut through nerves, sometimes they grow back together.  Sometimes they don't.  You'll know within six to nine months."

Me:  (Frankly, I was too stunned to speak.  Besides, the doctor was already down the hall dictating his notes for my chart.)

What happened to my arthritis-free, active, youthful happy ending???  Seriously, I like my surgeon and he's really good at what he does, which I'm sure is why he's so busy.  But I guess at my first visit I should have barricaded the door and asked more questions.  I don't like unpleasant surprises.

So three months after my fall down the stairs, I've learned these truths: I will probably never recover full use of my ankle, I'll have swelling for the remainder of my life, my foot will most likely stay numb forever, and I now have the ability to forecast the weather.  And I'm still three months older.  So much for staying young.

Pain, Pain, Go Away...

...you'll be back another day.

I feel an apology is in order even before I start my latest rant.  I've whined plenty about this broken ankle. But after almost eight weeks of agony, how much pain is one wimpy woman expected to take?   Menopause, with its associated hot flashes and "mood swings" (aka psychotic breaks), was enough to deal with, or so I thought. Then in the midst of that came the tumble down the stairs that gave me my first-ever broken bones. 

Six weeks post surgery and I was starting to feel I might actually walk again.  Or at least limp from place to place.  Today I decided I might be pushing myself too hard in my desperation to get back to my normal life (not sure why I'm in a hurry--I rather enjoy sitting in front of the tv all day "incapacitated").  My ankle ached after my morning exercises, so I thought I'd go soak it.  In the pool.  While laying on a float.  Yeah, that's my kind of therapy.

I had (possibly foolishly) been trying to walk without assistance. Because every muscle, ligament and tendon in my ankle and foot was crying out to me to stop the insanity, I decided to break from the stoicism and actually use one crutch as I worked my way to the bathroom to change into my swimsuit.  Mission accomplished, I set my crutch against the sink while I brushed my teeth.  How this happened I'll never understand, but the crutch slipped and slammed into one--and only one--spot:  my extremely sore and swollen ankle.  Pardon my language, but it hurt like a son-of-a-mother.  I actually cried like a baby.  My dear, sweet husband came to my rescue and helped me back to my seat (yes, after eight weeks of living there, the prime spot in front of the tv is now and forever mine). 

Certain my bone was protruding from my flesh, I was actually afraid to look at the damage.  Mark convinced me that, as much as I was in pain, there was really no way an aluminum crutch could have seriously re-injured my ankle unless someone had bashed me with it.   So I iced my ankle for a while, cried a little longer out of the frustration of it all, then headed outside for some real physical therapy in the form of a nice, relaxing dip in the pool. 

Please, dear Lord, save me from myself before it's too late.

My New Best Friend

Okay, she's my physical therapist.  I wasn't expecting to like her.  I was told physical therapists were torturers.  I imagined Sayid from Lost when he was "employed" by the Republican Guard.  Let the fun begin.

To be honest, I felt sick at the very prospect of going to therapy.  After seven weeks, my ankle still hurts. And it's swollen.  Between the loss of muscle in my calf and the swelling everywhere below, I look like I'm being held up on my left side by a 4x4 fence post.

Was I ready to have some sadist get his/her kicks at my expense?  Not a chance. Yet in the back of my mind, I'm not ready to give up the dream of some day walking again.  On my own two feet.  Suck it up, Vanessa.

I'm home again, thank God.  My foot is elevated and covered in ice.  Before I left for my appointment today, I scooted up the stairs on my butt, hopped around to find my clothes, balanced on my right foot while I dried my hair, then cinched up my big black boot and walked to the car on two crutches.  By the time I got home little more than an hour later, I was walking on one crutch and taking the stairs on my feet.  Hallelujah, sweet freedom!  Back to my own bed at night and my craft room during the day.  Thank you, Julie. And you helped me accomplish this with only minimal torture.

Crap.  I guess that means it's back to cooking and cleaning again, too.  On second thought, I might have overdone it today.  Maybe I should slow down this recovery just a bit.