Super Ninja Reflexes, kid.
Soooo, Friday morning found me in the offices of the superhero disguised as a Mild-Mannered And Slightly Overpriced Bone Fixer Expert. I was told upon leaving the hospital after my surgery that he’d be slapping a walking cast on me when he next saw me. You can imagine, dear Muffinasses, that I was pretty damned jazzed to be eyeballing him on Friday last.
I got there, the very kind nurse with the very shocky blonde ‘do unwrapped my brace, and the doc looked at it, saying something akin to, “Very nice. Verrrry niiiiice,” before telling Punknurse to rip out some stitches and slap a cast on that thing.
“YAY, WALKING CAST!” says I, very exuberantly.
“Nay,” said the Boneman (and I am paraphrasing here, surely you must know that), “Nay, for whilst thou art healing in one fine manner, thou artst not ready to gad about quite yet.”
I was crestfallen, because after that he explained to me how he was putting on a regular cast and I was still expected to keep all weight off of it and keep it elevated. We then spoke further about future action, to include putting the aforepromised walking cast on roundabout June thirteenth. Then we talked a bit about what would be up once that cast comes off (four weeks, as I am a good healer, and he now sees that).
I got sort of a sense of dread as he spoke because, fellas, it had never even occurred to me that I might not have full function of my foot and ankle when this is all said and done. Never. Even. Occurred. I guess Boneman discussed it briefly with Maxim while I was still knocked out, but Maxim has either not found the appropriate time to discuss it with me or did not find the discussion necessary. (He spoke with finality when I asked him about it: “It’s just not going to be an issue, Jett.” followed by a slight shrug. Sometimes he just Knows Things and they turn out to be true.)
So the Boneman left the room and I got to more closely inspect the incisions that the surgery fairy left under my brace. The one on the inside of my ankle runs at a diagonal and is about three inches long. The one on the outside of my ankle is vertical and runs up the lower portion of my leg rougly five inches. Honestly (and I fully realize the stupidity of this, folks, so bear with a girl for a minute), the notion of these scars remaining loudly visible bothers me more than the notion of having a slight limp forever and ever amen.
I didn’t have long to ponder such things, though, as Punknurse clipped off the top of the outside stitch and began pulling at the bottom of it. I thought, “Oh, slipstitches, like on dogfood bags!” but alas, it was not so. It turned out to be one long, woven stitch (??!) instead of sutures; in other words, something I’d never fucking heard of and questioned the logic behind. I didn’t have to question long, though, because the feeling of that nylon thread slipping serpentine through my viable, bruised tissue was a nasty one indeed and I’d not be exaggerating at all to tell you that it made my bowels, stomach and all fashionably coordinating innards hitch up and want to turn inside out. In laymanspeak, it felt hella, hella gahhh-rossss. And I! Am not! SQUEAMISHLIKETHAT!
I got rolled into the Casting Room (where I can assure you that no casting couch sat, only bunches of gluey rolled fiberglass and various shiny, somewhat sinister looking apparatuses [apperati?]), hopped one-leg style –in the fashion I’ve become so adept at– up onto the table and smiled expectantly at Punknurse. It was then that she pulled out this stainless steel contraption and burst my proverbial bubble.
The stainless steel contraption was shaped like an inverted ‘L’, with the foot of the L being only about an inch wide (in other words, No Fucking Help Atall) and the spine of it two inches square.
“I need you to place your foot here,” said my caregiver, indicating the teeny one-by-eight slip of metal, “and push your heel down firmly. We need your foot at a ninety degree angle to your leg.”
My tendons! my brain hollered. My tendons are not all sproingy like good tendons should be! Yes, there was to be some pain involved. No, I am not a fan of the type of pain involved. Neither am I scared of it or unable to handle it. I just choose to avoid it when at all possible.
“Okay,” I told her, “here’s how we’ll do this. I heard that other gal tell you that the fella across the hall needs his cast whacked off. It doesn’t take very long to do that, while casting does. You go on in there and saw around on him some and while you’re gone I’ll work this foot slowly and limber up all the necessary parts a little.”
She found me brilliant. I found her to be of superior judgement. We temporarily parted ways, merry in our individual pursuits. With an assistant’s help, I began flexing the tightly-wound tendons and ligaments and chose elephant grey for my cast.
When Punknurse returned, she clapped her hands together Miyagi-style and got started adjusting me to her liking. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and it made me nauseous, but she went slow (ignoring remarks like, “Punknurse, you are NOT my friend.”) so as not to cause me any undue hurt. We got things all set up and just as she was lifting the first sticky roll of cast material, Boneman strolled through the door and made some remark along the lines of “Oh MY, that will never do!”
It turns out that his version of ninety-degree angle was wildly different than mine and Punknurse’s.
With no pomp, circumstance, or forewarning, Boneman placed his meaty orthopaedist’s paw on top of my knee and leaned into the situation. I immediately laid hands on bolts of stomach-roiling pain and the kind of tears that get there before you even know you’re crying sprung up. I sobbed as quietly as possible and tried not to sick all over the back of Boneman’s head. Although, were a hammer nearby, I would’ve deposited it into his cranium without remorse.
I do not cry in public. I have a high pain threshold. That’s how bad it was, you folks. I would have liked some warning, but maybe warning people has not worked well for him in the past.
I sat there burbling with the pain and all that careened wildly around my head was that my newly-tacked tendons were going to pop free. I could just hear the sound of them in my head: the springy, high-pitched whipping sound of steel bridge cables snapping.
I survived, had one day of bitter disappointment and frustration at my inability to get up and locomote at my leisure as planned, got over it. Despite doctor’s orders, I’ve been going out. However, it’s in my wheelchair and I vigorously wheel myself around the block. I slept in my own bed on Friday night, and ate in the dining room with the fam on Saturday. This morning I woke up, crawled on hands and knees around the bed and stripped the sheets. It took me nearly an hour, but I got that fucker remade to perfection. Tomorrow I will get my art desk in order (I’d started putting my studio back together before the accident) and will have a go at some glue and paint and fabric and the like.
Convalescence does not agree with me.
