Whimper –range of motion exercises

One of the “joys” of getting a boot on is that I now get to take greater responsibility for my own recovery by doing range of motion exercises. Range of motion exercises in this case simply means I’ve gone back to school. Basically I trace the alphabet in block letters with my big toe with my foot hanging free over the edge of the bed. The key is to use your foot and not your leg or hip to do this. I’m supposed to do this exercise three times a day. What a lucky, lucky gal I am.

While THE FOOT was in the cast we had reached a détente. I’d keep it elevated and it wouldn’t hurt. Alas with the boot our truce has ended. The boot keeps my foot in a more correct position and the range of motion exercises, like any other exercise make it sore. What really angers THE FOOT though is wrestling the boot off and on. There is some major Velcro action going on there and I definitely feel like I’m wrestling with myself, foot held first down on the bed and then hanging in midair. After the wrestling match is over I definitely feel a margarita is in order. Alas no drinking with THE FOOT.

Oh and we engaged in a different type of exercise with THE FOOT as well last night. I got to take a ”bath”. I use the word in the loosest of terms. One of the things I was excited about with the boot is that I could take it off to wash. In this case washing means that I sit on a bath bench clinging for dear life while the spouse hoses me down with and adjustable showerhead. I really did feel remarkably like an elephant being hosed down in a zoo. The best part of the whole process was that I was able to loofah off some of the disgusting dry skin, the bad being that it took 15 minutes to get on and off the bench. I felt like I had run a marathon. Oh, and I’m so scared of THE FOOT not being supported that I left the boot on with a garbage bag tied on over it. This is not exactly a Project Runway look, trust me.

One last thing about the foot. I now know why so many people refer to their ankle as Franken ankle. Initially when the cast came off and the stitches were pulled I didn’t think it looked so bad. Sure I’ve got sutures running up and down both sides of the foot and the ankle itself still looks like a swollen death’s head mushroom but okay…Then this morning I took the sock off for a closer look. On the bottom of the foot I have the worst looking, huge purple bruise. I have no idea why this is what sent me over the edge but on went the sock and never shall I look again.

The post-op visit

It has now been exactly three weeks since my surgery and the Saint and I were scheduled to go in for a post-op visit today at either 9 a.m. or 11 a.m. depending on what person/machine etc. one spoke with. Now normally I’m a nervous Nellie but today it was the Saint who was nervous so he pushes me out the door at 6 freakin ‘45 a.m. Away we go and arrive at the doctor’s office at 7:30 – no big surprise there so we wait in the car until 8 and then out we go. We had been warned by the nice physician assistant that the clinic would be busy that day so we should be prepared and bring snacks. The Saint assumes Sherpa mode and packs out enough water, snacks, books, appliqué, electronic gadgetry etc. for a long afternoon hike. And yes – before you ask – I always take a book even while hiking. As for the Saint, heaven forbid he be without a computer device.

We ”walk” up to reception and start the check in process. “So you have Blue Shield@” ? I’m asked. “No, this is a worker’s comp insurance claim” (i.e. Yes I’m the pariah and no you won’t get as much from workers comp as you would from Blue Shield@ but please see me anyway). “We don’t show that in the system.” I begin to have just a bit of a nervous breakdown when another receptionist walks up and calmly says “oh just change the insurance and ask J to make sure it is recorded properly”. Breakdown averted.

I’m wheeled off to get X-rays. “We are going to remove your cast first” they tell me. Excuse me, you are going to take away my protection, my ankle support?! The cast comes off and man does it feel weird. My foot is feeling totally neekid and a little wobbly. So there I am kind of holding my foot up via the knee and the cast guy keeps saying “go ahead and relax your foot”. Ah no, I don’t think so. I’m eventually whisked off to X-ray where I’m asked to contort poor unprotected ankle and my left hip to get a good set of X-rays. Thanks to yoga the hip, at least ,contorts, really well.

I’m then wheeled into a room to await the doctor. He and a medical student come in. He takes a look at the ankle and at the X-rays and then asks if I have any questions. Why yes I do. You’ve left a librarian idle for three weeks with a computer connection and the vast world of the internet at her disposal. So I ask about the likelihood of reinjuring myself – slight – as well as the possibility of a non union. The man is very polite but I’m sure he is wondering where I came up with non union thoughts. He tells me it is very rare and that he has actually never seen a case. I politely refrain from pointing out that blood clots are somewhat unusual in this type of surgery too and that I seem to be having the worst luck lately. I figure if nothing else, the medical student kid can find all about non union. Non union by the way means this “A nonunion occurs when a broken bone does not heal.” He then tells me when to wear the boot – always except for bathing, and to start range of movement exercises. Basically I’m to spell out the alphabet three times a day with my toe. He also informs me to come back in three weeks and that we may start some weight bearing at that time and that it would be a further six weeks in the boot even after partial weight bearing commence. I am not particularly surprised to hear this, internet savvy explorer that I am. He and medical student depart.

After his departure I spell out the alphabet and then a very nice young lady comes in and tells me that she will be removing my sutures. She tells me this may hurt. The fabulous news is that after having my foot reduced twice, various IVs shoved into hands and arms, and shots in the stomach that hurt is a relative term. It was mildly annoying, much like pulling a scab when one was little, but does it hurt? No. She departs and boot guy comes in. He shows me how to wear the boot and then we are done. The whole visit was extremely quick. Basically from 8:30 to 10 a.m. Alas, Mark has assumed Sherpa mode for nothing.

Sadly, THE FOOT now known as Hermann, is a little uncomfortable now. The cast had gotten to be pretty loose so I could basically position my foot in the cast to be as comfortable as possible. The boot is lighter weight but is now holding Hermann in a more rigid and correct manner. My friend Nancy is alarmed that I have now basically identified my foot as male. I look at it this way – shy wallflower that I am I think of my relationship with THE FOOT the same way I used to interact with young gentlemen. The interactions were generally somewhat uncomfortable and awkward and so too is the relationship with my ankle. Also, since the boot also very much resembles Hermann Munster’s shoe I figure hey why not call it Hermann.

I’m now at home trying to nap but poor Tilly and Hermann have other plans, oh well….,

Food, glorious food

Another thing I used to take for granted was cooking. I don’t know why but I have the worst yen to cook today. Well actually I do know why – a friend called yesterday and mentioned what she’d be cooking for dinner and then today another friend mentioned that I should stop by our favorite bakery on the way home from the clinic. They have , literally the world’s best carrot cake. Man, I am really craving good food. I so want to try and new recipe. The fact that I’m fixating on food is also sort of good news. I’ve had a very low appetite lately – good for weight loss, not so good for bone health

Sadly, the best I can do at the moment is throw T.V. dinners in the oven. Our microwave is too high so I have to go old school even on stuff like lean cuisine. I can instruct the saint in trying to follow a recipe but it is not really the same. I cannot taste the food as one does when cooking nor can I do a little last minute – well let’s throw this in and see how it tastes. The saint in his own is very much a bachelor cook. Don’t tell him but please, no more canned spaghetti sauce and frozen meatball

Another reason why I’d like some really tasty food at the moment is that – yes I confess – yesterday evening I had another meltdown. Sobbing, despair etc. One good thing is that I’ve discovered that these feelings are pretty normal, and thanks for meditation for mindfulness, I allow myself to have them but only up to a point. Then I start to focus on something else, ergo carrot cake

On a more encouraging front, I no longer have to have injectable blood thinners (hurrah!) and am now just taking a pill. Most exciting of all though is that my elderly kitty, who we were starting to worry a bit about healthwise, seems to have rallied somewhat and she too seems to be on the mend. Here is hoping that both Tilly and I keep heading up that hill.

Broken ankle’s big day out

I had tickets to go see the play “War Horse” this past weekend. Unfortunately there was no way THE FOOT was going to survive getting up and down those tiny, tiny little stairs in the theatre so I stayed home while the saint and his mother went. I couldn’t really grasp whether the hubster enjoyed himself or not. I sure hope he did.

THE FOOT has had minor outings before Sunday. Himself wheels me out to the garden on a nightly basis for example and one Saturday I went with him to the store to explain the difference between fresh and frozen veggies. This past Sunday though was going to be the first outing where I’d be out more than an hour and get to see things besides the anticoag clinic or the vegetable aisle at my local supermarket

So on Sunday the spouse took me out to JoAnns and then to lunch. Yes, I know Joann’s isn’t that exciting to most of you but for me it was like being a kid in a candy store. I used to zip n and out of JoAnns not infrequently to grab whatever quilt magazine I needed in any given month. I’ve been so stir crazy that this outing was heaven. You’d think I’d been cooped up for years instead of a couple of weeks. Poor Mark trailed along behind as I kept up a running commentary on floral – nice fall colors-; the fact that Halloween decorations are already out; the fact that we need to reupholster the dining room chairs and “Oh look, isn’t that a nice fabric”. He manfully held my scrapbook papers and my quilt magazines as we stood in line. Heaven, I tell ya, heaven. Oh and JoAnns even has wheelchairs with a basket. Sadly we did not know that before going into the store so Mark became my faithful Sherpa

We then headed over to Applebees. We went in and it was not exactly a happening restaurant. We were one of maybe five couples in the joint. We were seated, or at least Mark was and we then proceeded to wait, a lot. One thing I’ve discovered is that THE FOOT has a time limit in terms of how long it likes to dangle. Turns out time limit was up about halfway through our meal. It turned a bright purple and began to throb gently. No waitress in sight, more throbbing and I finally flag her to get the check. She takes our cash and then disappears for another fifteen minutes or so as we had the audacity to ask for change. At that point I was willing to just roll out of there but himself is a much more patient and whole bodied man. We finally get our change put down a tip and voila, off home we go. THE FOOT goes to bed and all is well

My one piece of advice if you do happen to end up with a broken anything is make sure someone can get you out of your domicile. After the initial shock of breaking something, surgery etc boredom can become a big problem. I’m holed up in a room that is almost paradise for me. Lots of stuff to look at on the walls, bookcases (or as my mother in law calls it - a Borders Annex) behind me, and a window to my garden. Paradise can be just as much a prison as anything else though if you cannot get out so make arrangements with friends, family etc to go somewhere every once and awhile.

A better day

Amazing what the attention of a small furry creature can do for one. Marguerite, our second cat, absolutely ignores my existence. I’m not even a food source for her, so great is her disdain for me. So, imagine my surprise when she hopped up on my bed Monday night and actually sat with me for a whole fifteen minutes! Even she knew I needed a bit of TLC. She has also been coming in daily now and spending some time with me on subsequent days. Our furry companions make a world of difference!

Secondly, Miss Whimpery has been taking her shots in the stomach, without passing out or shrieking. Here’s hoping that trend continues.< P/>

Thirdly, while I cannot take a long soak in the tub, I got up and gave myself a nice long bath, well as nice and long as sitting in the chair and spot bathing can be. Even this type of bathing though can do the trick .< P/>

I received a very nice phone call from my worker’s comp rep to clarify some issues. I’ve mentioned it before but I am absolutely scared spitless to see what the final bill is going to be, who is going to pay it, and how much of my future life will be spent on a phone. Incidentally, the first thing she asks was “How are you feeling, are you okay” Good public service persona right there

I got a phone call back from the urgent care doc the day following my visit to urgent care. I was initially suspicious as no one ever calls you back, ever, but he was doing simple follow through and he apologized for sending me to the wrong anti –coag clinic. I’m definitely beginning to see the differences between an HMO clinic and a hospital. Let me say once again how much I appreciate PAMF!

I let myself be good and upset for a day or so but have let it go, much better for my psyche. BTW I would like to clarify that it was not the surgeon who was a jerk. I don’t have much contact with him but he has been very pleasant when I do speak with him. Let’s remember and give equal acknowledgement to the fact that nurses, PA assistants, etc are also health care professionals .They too should get the respect and be held up to the standards of the MD.

My lowest day...I hope

By now I should be used to how shabbily Health care professionals can treat their patients. However, today it was my turn and this truly was a low point for me, so I’ve decided to write a bit of an open letter to the health industry.

Dear Health care professional , First let me state that I know that you are busy, overwhelmed and definitely do not get enough credit for what you do. However, and this is a biggie, you are in what we call public service. This means that you interact with people, lots and lots of people. Those of us in other public service professions have been trained in public service persona. In my profession you are taught to be polite, regardless of how ignorant or ill informed you think the person is. What you do not get to do is treat them like garbage. I've had books thrown at me and kept a smile on my face. If I can do it then so can you. If you feel you cannot keep up a modicum of politeness then please, I beg of you, take up a profession that keeps you out of the public’s way. Try the morgue maybe.< P/>

Please be aware of what is being handed to patients. Sheep that we are many of us actually follow instructions, for instance if the patient’s (my) bloody discharge sheet states to call your clinic if chest pains occur, do not be surprised when we do so. If you don’t want us to call you then please be explicit and state “if chest pains occur call your primary care physician as we don’t give a damn.” .< P/>

This was my experience from this morning : I had chest pains over the weekend and I wished to ignore them but himself was adamant that I call as I had begun coughing in addition to the chest problems. So I read my instructions given to me by a doctor and reviewed with me by a nurse. I phone the orthopedics clinic per written instruction. I get transferred twice and repeat my story. The person says she will send an urgent message along with the words chest pain. So, in my world, chest pain means “attend to as a priority”. Evidently not so at the orthopedics clinic. Four hours later – not a peep. I’m so perverse that I refuse to call back. I want to see response time - 4 and one half hours in case anyone is interested.

Huzzah I finally get a call back…..Dear Health care person please learn to LISTEN. My first words were “Your discharge sheet states call the clinic if you have chest pain.” I could have gotten an actual appointment with my primary care doctor but I am following YOUR instructions. Learn to ask questions. Patients come in many different forms and I happen to be a self-effacer. This means I will minimize my pain and or health problems. Please ask questions beyond what the patient is telling you. We librarians do it every day. News Flash by the way “I am having chest pains” should be a trigger to ask MORE questions. DO NOT, in the snobbiest, bitchiest voice possible tell me that “doctor does not treat ribs”. The implication in those words was loud and clear that I was wasting your precious time. I’m not stupid and I know ankle does not equal rib but remember I am following the instructions given to me. I don’t know what the doctor wants. You can be efficient but kind in stating that the steps I should take are as follows….. Interestingly, and I’m not sure why I got an immediate second phone call from the clinic but that person listened to me through my sobs, asked pertinent questions and then gently suggested that I go to urgent care. She is what everyone should aspire to be

I also have a horrible suspicion that since this is worker’s comp related that maybe I’ve been shoved down to a second tier of care somewhere. I suspect that workers comp insurance doesn’t pay as much back to the docs and there is always the stigma related to workmen’s comp issues. Once again DO NOT judge your clientele. My issue was absolutely related to my job and I wish with all my heart I hadn’t been injured at work. Life would be so much more straightforward. I am aware that there are people who milk workers comp but I am not one of them. I have so much sick leave I could be off for 35, count em, 35 weeks. I throw this figure out to prove I’m not a slacker taking advantage of the system

So to make a very long boring story short I ended up in urgent care and was diagnosed with a blood clot. Urgent care takes words like chest pain seriously and all told I was in for 4 hours (less time than it took the orthopedics clinic to phone) and the people there were all fabulous. I am trying really hard to think of all the fabulous people I’ve met and who do have the public persona down. PAMF urgent care – the BEST! You want to see how kind, efficient professionals work, shadow a PAMF person

on a lighter note, Mark got to say I told you so when I balked at going and he gets to give me, the girl who passes out at the sight of a needle, shots 2x a day for 5 days. WHIMPER

Now what?!

So, yesterday started out so nicely… This was the first evening I was able to sleep though the evening with no opiate pain pill’s assistance. This is a big thing for me as addictive personalities tend to run in my family. So far, chocolate seems to be my main problem but I didn’t want to take any chances so I weaned myself off the Percoset. Hurrah for moi!

Then, as an extra special treat, ooh ah, the spouse took me to the store so I could explain fresh as opposed to frozen veggies to him. – I may not like veggies but I am Velma’s daughter( MS. always eat fresh and , if possible, raw ) It was so nice to have a change of scenery and I got to talk to a slightly odd but nice man in produce while himself wandered the rest of the store. One side note here about the saint. He is the best, most patient nurse ever but a good conversationalist he is not. So not only did I speak with slightly odd man yesterday but also to my friend’s husband on the phone for an hour. I am kinda starved for conversation.

So the one thing I noticed yesterday was that I had a nasty pain in my upper right back, under the shoulder blade. I had assumed that I had slept on my back funny but as the day progressed it started to get sharper and sharper regardless of icing or heating the area. I couldn’t breathe in deeply without sharp shooting pains and I had really, really bad heartburn. Initially Ms hypochondriac thought she might have a blood clot traveling around, but the all knowing net didn’t seem to support this as the pains should be on my left side. So then, I started to think about it. I had just gone off my opiates which were probably masking the rib pain and I was so freaked out by THE FOOT that nothing else registered in those days. I’m now thinking that I probably cracked a rib in my fall based purely on the evidence that strapping up that section of the rib cage seems to have helped. It still hurts like a house on fire but it is more manageable by now.

Himself wants me to go have it X-rayed but , as far as I can tell, they don’t do much other than send you home with ibuprofen or Tylenol. I’m already taking the Tylenol and, to be quite frank, after my experiences in the emergency room I refuse to go back unless I’m unconscious.

On the plus side, the heartburn has been so bad I don’t feel like eating. I’m hoping this will help me not gain more weight than I can help while THE FOOT heals. Generally though not the type of weight loss method I’d recommend. I am also kind of hoping that I don’t have another body part that becomes its own entity. After all who want both THE FOOT and THE RIB to rule their lives?

But you'll get so much reading done...

So, I’ve been getting a lot of “staying home isn’t so bad, you’ll get so much reading done…” . On paper as it were, yes this is absolutely true. I love to read, I always bemoan the fact that I don’t have enough time to do it, I’m a captive audience of one, I’ve been imprisoned in my home library and yet… For the first several days I couldn’t concentrate on anything, I read a whole 15 pages in three days. I was too busy worrying about how big the bill was going to be, who was going to pay etc. I was also busy calling my HR department, the disability insurance folks and so on.

Then, after the initial set of worries, I invented others. Yes my husband will tell you I can worry about anything. However things have calmed down a little bit and now I have started reading. Things are still not exactly paradise. I seem to become so easily distracted. I dunno, it could be due to the fact that THE FOOT, alternates between feeling like I have a hundred very small bees in the cast, to having a red hot vice clamped down on my heel. Sadly THE FOOT seems to prefer watching John Stewart on Hulu. It finds itself more easily distracted by the folly that is American politics. So we’ll see if I can actually finish off my fifteen books by the end of August. So far it isn’t looking good. I got five read before the accident and another r one is almost done but that leaves seven to go in two weeks. I’m thinking of forgiving myself though and resetting the clock once THE FOOT behaves itself again.

On the plus side, Miss Scaredy pants “I’m gonna fall again” made it from her walker, to the wheelchair without killing herself. Motivation – fear that my mother in law would see the vast balls of cat hair rolling through the house. German Hausfrau obviously took over from Miss Scaredy pants just long enough to Swiffer the floors from the wheelchair. Huzzah!

Stay tuned – Can German Hausfrau keep it up, will Miss Scaredy pants be vanquished? whoops THE FOOT also just reminded me that it can do sharp dagger needles of pain too!

It really is all about the cat

Obviously this was brought home with Me, the cat, in mind. ALmost as good as that snazzy white perch at the end of my mom's leg

My broken ankle - what I took for granted

Before I write anything else I want to send out my deepest and most profound apologies to my mother. I used to become impatient with her after her surgery when she’d tell me how difficult it was to reach the restroom. After all, she had her walker, she was good at using it, so what was the problem. Mom, I now know what you are talking about and I’m so sorry I was so short with you.

My instructions are to have no weight bearing weight on my left leg for 8 weeks. I have interpreted this as thy leg shall not touch the floor, ever. So the first thing I used to take for granted was a quick in and out in ye old powder room. Anyone else who has had major surgery will understand this. No one else on the net has mentioned this but…

For the first three days of my break I was on crutches. I have a somewhat low toilet seat. It was literally impossibly for me to lower down and control the crutches at the same time so my husband and I came up with a cirque d’ absurd routine to compensate. I’d hobble halfway into the bathroom, he’d follow behind to make sure I didn’t fall; he’d then grab a kitchen chair and contort around me and the crutches to place the chair next to the toilet. He’d grab the back of the chair and I’d then ease on down and over. We then had the “dignity clause” wherein he would leave, I’d do my thing and then have him come back, hold the chair again and I’d ease back on over. I’d then get back up on the crutches and lurch back over to the bed. I told him there’d be no way for him to go back to work if I had to stay on those crutches

Thank heavens, I now have a walker and it is so much easier to get over and back on my own. I do have to use the towel rack to steady myself so I send a little prayer to the local bathroom appliance deity that the brackets will hold on pretty much a daily basis. I’ve also allowed my foot to touch the floor as I slide down which makes things easier.

I also miss actually being able to carry things. Hands must be on the walker at all times so I cannot do something as simple as grab a glass of water. No big deal until you realize you really need it, like I did last night. My leg really started to throb at about 1:30 a.m. I fumble around get the right pain med and then realize I don’t have a glass – no way am I going to wake up Mark, who is utterly exhausted and who is in another room. But hark; do I hear the therapy cat hacking up a hairball next to the spouse? I do. Mark has been attuned into instant wakefulness for years to the sound of hairballs so up he gets. Huzzah, I then legitimately feel I can yell for some water. Had it not been for therapy cat though I would have been in trouble.

And finally, I miss being able to put on garments with no problem. I’ve been wearing oversized t-shirts and granny panties for ease of on and off. Yesterday Mark took me out into the backyard in the chair and I realized I really should either have what they used to call a bed rug on or contorted into a pair of pants. Fortune smiled though and the neighbors were not at home to see my lower extremities.

So you broke your ankle, what's that like?

So, ta da, I broke my ankle. News flash kids, Do not try this - it is not fun. For those of you who don’t already know the story, I and a co-worker were taking some “accompanying materials” to a Spanish textbook “accion” over to her new supervisor. (Note the irony in accion =action) There were eight books in total, just enough for them to be too heavy for her to carry on her own, so we each took 4, a very manageable load. I volunteered to help her carry them from my library over to her supervisor’s desk. We started down the stairs and I was conversing with her about a recent gift we had received when my foot slipped out from under me. I don’t think I fell more than four steps but evidently it was enough. I heard a snap and knew I’d broken something. (A side note here, everyone kept saying that maybe it was just a sprain but, trust me on this, you know when something is broken) I told my poor co-worker to go get my boss while I propped myself up on the landing. A very nice gal came and called 911 as did a co-worker. Many nice firemen and EMTs then came and took me over to the hospital. After three sets of x-rays and two reductions of my ankle I was sent home from the ER and was told I’d have surgery.

An ankle reduction BTW sounds so harmless but it is where they splint your ankle, which involves plaster of paris and lots of squeezing of the ankle (lots of squeezing and being told to relax while they seemingly smash the bones back together. Dude this hurts , you relax).

Initially the ER doc seemed surprised that I didn’t want any painkillers but honestly, initially the ankle didn’t hurt. Come time for the second reduction though, The orthopedist asked if he could put lidocaine in my ankle and I said yes please. Now for anyone, and I mean anyone to get near me with a needle and ask to insert aforesaid needle, normally the answer would be a polite but firm no thank you. That I said yes was an indicator that yes, the pain or fear thereof had ratcheted up just a notch.

So the waiting commenced, I was told I’d be on the waitlist for surgery for Thursday so, in the meanwhile, I started calling my HR department ,OHC, the workers comp insurance folks etc. Workers comp assured me I was authorized to have the surgery. I also phoned the surgeons office to let them know this.

On Thursday we wait, and wait, and wait, until I am almost in despair but are told to finally come in. Now getting out of Mark’s truck when we came home from emergency and getting back into the truck to go to the hospital is quite some feat. They gave me crutches at the emergency room but I didn’t feel comfortable using them on the stairs so, and to this day I don’t know how I did this, I managed to get out of Mark’s truck and unto my butt and then slithered into the front door. I got on a rug and Mark dragged me to the bathroom. I then sat on the tub and was able to use the crutches from there.

In reverse, to go back to the hospital I then had to slither on my butt down concrete which must have had a temp of 90 degrees., have Mark set up a chair, haul me into the chair and then from there I was able to get into the truck. If I have one piece of advice for anyone, please make sure your transport is a sedan and not a truck.

Another side note – DO NOT give crutches to someone with a broken ankle and who may/may not be on drugs. They are not stable, you have tons of weight you are trying to hold up on one by trying to keep the one leg from touching the floor and balancing on another leg which gets fatigued pretty darn quick. Their primary use, as far as I can determine, is holding them in front of you while you are in a wheelchair and using them as a battering ram to keep people away from your foot. Trust me a foot in a cast is the equivalent of a light and a moth. People will veer toward your foot.

Finally got into surgery and, thank goodness, it is a success. I get an overnight stay and then home on Friday – Night nurses, bless them, are the most fabulous creatures ever. I loved my nurse and want to adopt her.

Now comes the reality of living with a broken ankle and reality seems to equal fear.

I’m afraid I’m somehow going to get stuck with a huge hospital bill even though it is should be covered. Due to some statements made at admissions I’m really, really scared about this.

I’m afraid I’m going to fall and rebreak the ankle and have to do all this all over again. It’s not the pain I fear so much as it is the inconvenience

The odd thing about a broken ankle is, while there is a lot of discomfort and some pain, it is not the worst pain I’ve ever felt. When I stabbed myself in the butt with my sewing scissors, that was pain! It is almost impossible to do anything on one leg though, when the other leg has what feels like a 30lb cast on it (Mark tells me it is more like 10/15 lbs) It is such a drag not being able to casually walk from one room of the house to another.

I’m afraid my primary caregiver, Saint Mark, is going to snap, and run away from home.

I’m afraid of how helpless I really am. I can barely manage using the facilities without help. I cannot open cupboards or the fridge, my window, or turn on/off my lights as hands must be on the walker at all times.

I’m afraid I’m going to yell at my very elderly cat who thinks she is helping me by sleeping on my bladder all the time.

I’m afraid that the one perceived upside, i.e. I will get lots of appliqué and reading done, will turn out no to be true and I’ll be more behind than ever on my projects.

I’m afraid of stupid things, like the fact that, I’d finally gotten pigeon pose down and was this close to being able to do hero pose. Actually, I’m more pissed about this. I get my exercise routine down, baby, only to have to start from ground zero, come on!

I’m afraid that I might not be able to age well in my current home, after discovering that hallways are not really suitable for either the walker or wheelchair. There are also too many steps in my house though Mark has already built ramps all over the place. I’m afraid of something called a highrise toilet, which my friend Nancy assures me I’ll love but I don’t know, does it have a penthouse at the top?

Since I’m quite the captive audience I’ll post more on the trials and tribulations of living with a broken bone. Stay tuned.