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Jett Superior laid this on you on || May 30, 2005 || 4:51 pm

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.

11 worked it out »

  1. Jennifer 5.30.2005

    Oh darlin. You’ve got me in sympathy tears over here.

    My broken leg had nothing on yours – I fell down a hill on rollerblades the first time I ever fell on those ever-cursed things. Four breaks led to surgery and tales much like this one – OOF.

    I’m glad you’ve got your sense of humor – that’s good. It kept me sane.

    Once you’re up and moving on crutches, wearing a book bag around your neck is crazywonderful for carrying things. I couldn’t manage a glass of water but I could do laundry.

    The scars do get better with time. :)

  2. blamb 5.31.2005

    Convalescence does not agree with me.

    Well, at the very least it’s forcing you to pay some attention to your much-neglected blog site!

  3. cal 5.31.2005

    been thinking of you…

  4. MerryMadMonk 5.31.2005

    That hurt just reading about it. You’re a champ. Scars on the leg – cool… but then I’m a dude.

    I love your writing — wish I had found your place sooner.

    ps You must really, really like clean sheets. :p

  5. marc 5.31.2005

    “hopped one-leg style –in the fashion I’ve become so adept at”

    Such kinship at that! I had an ankle reconstructed a decade ago. Restlessless got me really damn good at that hoppy thing. I even rearranged my whole bedroom carrying everything hopping around. It was stupidly exhausting, but moving about felt so good.

    (Still thinking ’bout ya and checking in everyday to see how it’s going)

  6. Jettomatika 5.31.2005

    Jenn: yeah, while doing the hop-hop thing I often carry things in my mouth so as to leave my hands free; you know, to brace myself in case of the inevitable fall.

    I fell two days after I broke it, Maxim didn’t get there fast enough to catch me, and my hands weren’t free. The howling and yowling made both of the girls cry like babies, because they had never seen me do anything remotely like that. Mom=stoic. It scared the shit out of them to see me otherwise.

    BLAMB!: Oh suuuuuure, it’s always about YOU and YOUR needs. You sicced that tractor on me, DIDN’T YOU?

    cal: Long time, no hear! I hope you’re well….

    MMM: (hahaha, your initials go all ‘mmmm’) thank you for showing up to the party, and thanks for your compliments! And yes, being the daughter of a Marine (and having spent some time in the service as both a wife and member m’sef), I am full-on appreciative of a crisply made bed with yummy-smelling sheets.

    Also, around here, clean sheets always mean friskiness for some reason. It’s like we’re wildly compelled to sully them, or something.


    marc: I’m with you on the stupidly exhausting tip. I have been fussed at over and over along the lines of “DOING TOO MUCH NOW WILL MAKE YOU HAVE A WALK LIKE QUASIMODO LATER!!!”

    But fuck that noise. I’m sick as all-hell of sitting still and not being able to sleep at night as a result. Ironically enough, it’s exhausting me to death.

    I was not built to live a sedentary lifestyle! (and to think, I used to pine for naps)

  7. redclay 5.31.2005

    oh, honey.

    i know a little. i was once laid up in a big city hospital, under an assumed name.

    ribs, leg, and i don’t know what all. broke. sat there cursing the tv and trying to decide if that girl i do not know was worth it. of course she was, but i wish i had told her my name. ida kilt for a chocolate milkshake.

  8. zee 5.31.2005

    sleeping in your own bed is always a good thing, Jett.

    more get better soon wishes for you. :o )

  9. Jettomatika 6.1.2005

    zee: Yes, because sleeping in your own bed can get you some (carefully-orchestrated, if you’re in my plaster boots) NOOKIE!

    red: Like it wadden enough that God let you live. You had to be all greedy and wanting.

  10. Howard 6.1.2005

    You know, a classy ankle or lower-calf tattoo would make those scars just disappear. You could turn the scars into cool snakes or something like that. Yeah, a classy ankle tattoo. :)

  11. Jettomatika 6.1.2005

    See, I’ve already given that option a mental working-over. I already have a piece on the outside of my right calf, and I’m not about overdoing, so I don’t think I could make it work with The Ink.


    No snakes on me unless they are chawing on a fluffy bunny.


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