The broken ankle returns to work

Hermann(the boot) and I returned to work on Thursday. I, myself, prefer to think of it as the broken ankle Olympics. We had started our training early. I had rented a seated scooter in anticipation of the long trek from parking lot to my library. For those of you who have never visited my fair campus the closest parking area is about a quarter mile away, and yes this includes disabled parking. Not that I will ever be able to park in disabled parking as I foolishly mailed in my form to the DMV. I was obviously on drugs at the time or I would have known better. However, I digress. I, and my handsome trainer started practicing several days early with the scooter. I would roll out the back door, push my way into the front yard and approach the car. I would then get off the scooter, open the back door to the car and, on one foot, shove the scooter into the back seat. This is somewhat equivalent to shoving a cat into a carrier for a vet visit. Neither I not the scooter were pleased with the action but we got the job done. Still on one foot I then hopped up to the front seat and drove around for a bit. Of course before the drive could commence I had to catch my breath and wipe away the torrents of sweat pouring down my face. After the drive I parked the car and pulled out the scooter . The scooter having once been put into the back seat did not wish to come out. To continue with the cat analogy it was a bit like trying to pull the cat out of the cat carrier once s/he arrived at the vet. The scooter, I swear, developed claws and hung onto the backseat for dear life. Once again, though , I persevered hopping about on one foot. My handsome assistant was not allowed to help as I had to prove I could perform these actions on my own. He did attempt to give what he thought was helpful advice such as “why don’t you turn it upside down and put it on your bike rack?” Why yes sweetie, I’ll just haul up 20 lbs to shoulder height while hopping about on one leg (not).

Having proven that I could indeed get around on the scooter I chickened out and had the saint drive me to work my first two days. We arrived at our parking space and I began to push myself along and towards the general direction of the library. I encountered my first hurdle at a gently sloping hill aka Mt. Everest near the library. I’d push a few feet, rest, request oxygen, and then push a few more feet, repeat the request for air and then push again. Eventually I reach the top of the hill and my right thigh announces that it has had enough thank you very much. However, we still have approximately 500 yards to go so the thigh is conscripted back into duty and we reach the front doors to the building my library is in. Bless all universities for having such solid, solid doors. The doors are wrestled open, and I make it to the second floor to encounter another set of doors. Another wrestling match ensues and voila, I have arrived. I have arrived one half hour after exiting the car. Sadly it appears that I am the Eddie the Eagle equivalent in broken ankle Olympics.

My work day commences with the boss handing over a whole slew of work and various colleagues chatting to me about how nice it must have been to be at home, lolling about in bed and reading. Yeah right, it was just like vacationing at the beach, everybody should try this. However, this did not astound me nearly as much as the reactions of various library patrons. I am ensconced at the front desk, foot on a pillow and the pillow on a library stool. Directly behind me is my walker. A clueless patron would ask a question and I’d get up, hobble around the desk on my walker and in every single case the patron would have a look of astonishment on their face. It was as if the big black boot were totally invisible and that all library staff sat at the front desk with their leg propped at a ninety degree angle from their body. Personally I think we should all be very worried that the crème de la crème of academia are so totally clueless or else be concerned about their fashion taste if they assumed that Hermann was standard footwear.

One other, tiny, tiny factor that turned my return to work into an Olympic event was a visit to the restroom. The library has not restroom so we have to walk down a hallway ~300 steps or so. Sadly, I could not go this way as there were stairs. Stairs and I are not on speaking terms since they chose to fling me down them so I had to go the long way around to use a handicapped ramp. Like an idiot I chose to do this on a walker. Big mistake, I might as well have walked the Appalachian trail. It would probably taken the same amount of time as well as the same amount of resulting soreness in me bum muscles. Future visits were done with the scooter.

Overall I did survive my first two days along with the resultant fatigue at the end of the day as well as the brain fog throughout the day as I reacclimated and my body realized it would not be getting its two hour nap. Tilly, my faithful kitty also survived the separation but neither she nor I were happy about it. For any future broken ankle folks, may I recommend going back to work half time, oh and avoid those hills!

Partial weight bearing to commence

Yesterday was a long day. First up I had an appt with the orthopedic surgeon. Initially, I saw one of the residents who was happy with my range of motion progress. He also commented on the fact that my foot seemed pretty strong when he asked me to push on his hand with it. Hurrah for diligently doing my ABCs (with the foot of course). The main ortho doc was impressed with how well my scars had healed, thanks to my genetics I’d like to point out, but less so with how tight the calf was. He remembered that both my good and bad legs have this problem. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that even my own mother told me that I walked like a jock with polio and this was years ago. He also told me that I am now allowed to put some weight on the foot using the boot as comfortable but will have to continue using a walker for another six weeks.

I love vague pronouncements such as “as comfortable.” As far as I am concerned as comfortable means lying around with my leg propped up or lolling around in the wheelchair for pretty much forever, less chance of bones re breaking that way. Intellectually though I know a certain amount of weight placed on the leg actually helps the bone heal. Like a brave little soldier I got up last night and took a few steps using the walker. It didn’t feel so bad so I took a few more. Then it dawned on me that I might not be placing any weight at all so I had my husband get out the bathroom scale and I put my bad foot down on it. I pushed down as hard as I could and could only exert 28 lbs of pressure and I knew that I had indeed not been putting any weight on the foot earlier. So I tried it again and this time knew I was putting down some weight. As a reward for being hauled all over kingdom come and then being forced to work my ankle swelled up pretty much like a puffer fish. Today, we are allowing a little more elevation and a little less perambulation though I am forcing it to do some walking.

The other doc I saw yesterday was a pulmonologist. Her first words were “why did Dr. urgent care want me to see you?” Err “I don’t know, you tell me.” Unlike ortho doc though she was quite informative and took some time explaining exactly what the pulmonary embolism had done to my lung and why I felt pain in my back. She showed me the CT scan and explained that little white dots (veins) was good, and the pinky vein was bad, as it had been blocked by the embolism. She then went on to explain that the walls of the lung should be smooth, pointed out where mine wasn’t and explained that was where the fluid had accumulated. The back pain is due to a shared nerve between the lung and shoulder. When the fluid started pressing on the nerve the shoulder registered the pain. Very cool. Less cool was when she told me she felt I needed to be on blood thinners for an additional month, sigh. Oh, and I’ll probably be more susceptible to blood clots in the future. Yipee for me.

Onward and upward, every step in the boot and on the walker means I’m that much closer to being healed.

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!

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.