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.
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