Needles and Pins

I swear this whole situation feels like some surreal dream.

I went to the orthopedist yesterday. I suppose that I was a bit naïve going in. I figured that he'd come in, remove the splint from my ankle, put on a cast in the fashion color of my choice, and send me on my merry way.

Dream on, Myo. Actually it went a little more like this...

Mom and I drove out to the office that morning. I was more than slightly amused by the fact that I was going to a sport medicine clinic, since I am the most un-sporty person on the planet. When I think sports medicine, I think of high school quarterbacks who got sacked a little too hard, not an out-of-shape thirty-something woman who managed to blow her ankle out doing nothing more strenuous than walking to her car.

I was the only person in the lobby on crutches. This only added to my lack of self-confidence. All of the other patients were walking around like normal coordinated people, and I was teetering unsteadily to the receptionist's desk like a complete klutz. Which, I will admit, I am.

After hobbling into an exam room and waiting for what seemed like forever, the orthopedist finally came in. Rather than examining my ankle, he began to hang the x-rays from the emergency room on the light board. Apparently, he explained, I had managed to break my ankle in three places (a trimalleolar fracture), and the closed reduction wasn't sufficient to insure that my ankle would heal properly. Surgery was necessary. The insertion of pins were necessary. There was a possibility of nerve damage and rehabilitation time of up to a year.

I listened to the doctor, trying to remain calm despite the fact that my brain was imploding with this new information. Surgery? Pins? Overnight stay at hospital? Rehab? This was not supposed to be happening. He was supposed to wrap my ankle in plaster and tell me to take it easy for a few days before I return to work. I was supposed to be spending Monday having my nieces draw on my cast, not having doctors reassemble my ankle with metal that will be a permanent part of my body.

I've never had any type of surgery, except for the time I had my wisdom teeth removed 13 years ago. I've never been admitted to a hospital. Up until Wednesday afternoon, I'd never had an IV. Now my next few days are filled with the dread of going under the knife, incision scars on my ankle, more bruises from IV needles, the possibility of a catheter, and the knowledge that I will forever set off metal detectors when I go to the airport.

As soon as the doctor left the exam room, I burst into tears. The idea of surgery and hospital stays and recovery time had led to overwhelming thoughts that scared the hell out of me. What if I didn't have enough sick time at work? Why didn't I sign up for AFLAC when it was offered to me? Why did this have to happen right before the busiest time of the year at my job? (There are three special events coming up in the next three months, plus the beginning of school rush.) How was I going to get to work, since the doctor had said I wouldn't be able to drive for several months? How was I supposed to get up and down the stairs at my apartment building? Who would take care of my cats while I was recuperating? How was I going to pay for all of this?

My mother reassured me that everything would be fine, that we would find a way to work things out. And while I'm sure that she's right (like she always is), there's still a lot of lingering doubts in my head wreaking havoc upon my nerves. I want this all to stop. I can't handle this. I can't do this.

Unfortunately, I really don't have much choice in the matter, do I? All I can do is rest up, take my Percocet like a good little girl, and try not to think too much about Monday morning.

A Guest Spot on ER

I've been gone too long. I've been meaning to come back for quite a while now, but there never seems to be enough time or motivation to go around. As a matter of fact, I was mentally planning my brilliant comeback while I sat at my desk yesterday.

Well, as it turns out, time is no longer a problem.

I'd left the office early yesterday for a doctor's appointment. It was nothing of any import, just a brief visit to the girly-bits doctor to get my quarterly shot in the butt. I got into the office a bit early, dropped trou, and headed downstairs to the cashier debating whether I should head back to the office and wrap a few things up or go home and change clothes before meeting my parents for dinner.

As I left the cashier's desk and started walking out to the car, my well-worn sandals hit the freshly waxed floor of the lobby. I felt my right foot start to slip out from under me, and ankle gave, trying to compensate so I wouldn't end up flat on my back.

***CRACK***

Pain, pain, immense pain. I started screaming like a howler monkey, and glanced down at my ankle. Oh my, I thought to myself, my foot shouldn't be pointed in that direction. From where I was sitting, it looked as if my foot had completely detatched from my now very swollen ankle, and the only thing holding them together was my skin.

By now, three or four people had rushed over to where I was sitting, holding my knee so my ankle and foot wouldn't touch the ground. I looked like I was posing for a particularly sadistic version of Glamour Shots. (Picture the pose that the woman with the short white hair in the second row is in. Only my left leg was out straight, and I certainly didn't look that chipper.) Someone called 911, someone tried to call my mother, someone brought me a glass of water. I'd stopped howling at this point, but I was still crying. I'd also realized that I'd dropped my credit card in the process of all this, and I couldn't find it. I tried to shift a bit to see if I was sitting on it.

"DON'T MOVE!!!"

Yes, I knew I wasn't supposed to move, but I also knew it would be just my luck that someone would grab my MasterCard in the midst of this chaos and crash my checking account while I was being whisked away to Good Samaritan Hospital. (Yes, I was sitting on it; it was discovered when the paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher.)

Those of you who know me know that I'm a relatively healthy person. The only times I've been to the doctor (non-gyno, that is) in the last ten years was five years ago for a double whammy of bronchitis and sinusitis, and last week for a badly stubbed toe. (Yes, I was wearing the same shoes. I'll be burning them later tonight.) I'd suffered through my first broken bone last year with no medical treatment. Suddenly I was being put into the back of an ambulance, wheeled through the Emergency Room into a curtained area. After explaining what happened to practically every person working in the hospital and assuring them that I had no drug allergies that I knew of, a very nice nurse set herself to the task of trying to find a vein suitable for an IV. Unfortunately, I inherited my mother's circulatory system, and it took two people, three tries, and a heparin lock to get an IV going.

A portable X ray machine was wheeled in. A doctor came in to let me know that I had definitely fractured my ankle. (Previously, they had thought it might only be dislocated. Yeah, only dislocated. How reassuring.) Someone had finally reached my mother, and they informed me that she was on her way. That was comforting. Not as comforting as the Demerol that was injected into my IV, but I was very glad to know my mommy was on her way. (Daddy too, since Mom called him immediately after getting off the phone from the hospital.

My parents arrived, and this is where I started to lose track of things. The nurse gave me more Demerol, as well as some Versed to prepare me for a closed reduction. I don't remember a thing. I was convinced that I was still having the same conversation with my parents, but a splint had magically appeared on my leg.

My mother drove me back to my apartment so I could pick up a few things. (It had been decided it would be best if I stayed with them for a few days - at least until I got an actual cast on my ankle.) Well, actually she protested as I hobbled out of the car, overconfidantly attempting to make it up the steps with my crutches. She patiently helped me up when I crashed into the pavement and skinned my knee. She went upstairs to feed the cats and grab a pair of shorts and a few pairs of underwear to replace the black stretch jeans that the ER staff had cut off my injured leg. I sat on the front steps crying, angry at myself for being both too stubborn and completely helpless. After a brief and fruitless stop at the Norwood Walgreens (they didn't have the stock to fill my Percocet prescription), we headed north to my parents' neighborhood (and their local Walgreens, which filled my prescription while we went through the Wendy's drive-thru).

So here I am, 24 hours later, camped out in my parents' basement. Things could be worse. I have access to cable, the DVD player (spent the afternoon watching Pulp Fiction with the trivia commentary on), the computer, enough food and drink for three people. There's a bathroom less than twenty feet away. I'm getting a little bit better on the crutches. I have drugs that make me a bit loopy and take a little of the pain away. (I'm a little anxious about the drugs. I'm unsteady enough without them, but the pain creeping out from beneath the ACE bandages is making them an evil necessity.) Mom and Dad should be home shortly, and I believe my sister is bringing the nieces out for the evening. (My original plans last night consisted of meeting up with my parents for dinner, then following them out to my sister's place for a visit. Same plans, different place, different time.) Tomorrow I get to go to the orthopedic specialist, who will hopefully give me the lowdown on how much damage I've gone. (After all of this, I don't really know specifically what I broke. Mom's stopping at the hospital on her way home to pick up the X rays, so we can take them with us to my appointment tomorrow.)

But there's still a lot of stuff that scares me. How am I going to get up the very steep stairwell in my apartment building? How am I going to get to work? (Driving a car is a frightening thought at the moment. Driving a stick shift? Out of the question.) What if I get to like my Percocet a little too much, and end up a prescription painkiller junkie? Will this injury put an end to my dreams of being a showgirl in Vegas? (No, not really. Just checking to see if you were on your toes.)

Guess it's a good thing that I've still got vacation and sick days saved up. Looks like I'll be away from my desk for a little while. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for my drugs.