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.