What Have We Learned?

Up until my accident last month, I'd been quite proud of my independence. I'd relished my freedom, the fact that I relied upon very few people in my life. I was able to do things by myself and do them well, thank you very much.

Life has a funny way of reminding you that you're never too old to ask for help. Too bad I'm still dealing with the aftereffects of the punchline.

While I've managed to figure out ways to get most of my day-to-day duties done, there are still things that are incredibly difficult or nigh impossible. I can run the mail upstairs at work, but it usually means I will spend the next twenty minutes sitting at my desk gritting my teeth and blinking back tears, cursing myself under my breath for not just asking someone to get the address labels from the printer upstairs. I have figured out how to get my coffee and dinner from the kitchen to the living room in my apartment, but it takes me five or ten minutes to get forty feet so I don't slosh coffee out of the cap on the travel mug. And everything I eat has to fit in my Elmo lunchbox.

(Yeah, that's right. I'm thirty five and I carry an Elmo lunchbox. Lately, I've been carrying it nearly everywhere. What of it?)

There are still things that are ridiculously simple, things that I previously had taken for granted, that I simply cannot do. I cannot do my laundry. The washer and dryer are in the basement, and I haven't figured out a way to lug my dirty clothes, detergent, and fabric softener down two flights of stairs while I'm hobbling about on my crutches. Thankfully my mother has stepped in to help me out there, as well as going to Krogers and Staples and Complete Petmart; after my ill-fated trip to Walgreens where my leg started to give out by aisle 3, I'm pretty happy to send her into the store with a list while I sit in the car and fiddle with the radio.

After downloading the recommended updates the other day, my computer has decided that the factory-installed sound drivers are no longer compatible with Windows and promptly shut them down. So now, after finally getting around to getting DSL so I could be a music pirate like all the cools kids, I have no sound whatsoever on my computer at all. Unfortunately, I'm not currently able to take my computer anywhere to be serviced, so I will probably end up spending a small fortune calling in a technician who makes house calls. Or I'll just have to surf in silence for another month or two. Since I'm not especially techno-savvy, I don't have much of a choice in the matter.

I cannot drive, which has curtailed my independence quite a bit. No more going to Blockbuster on a whim to pick up the entire first season of Six Feet Under or running to UDF to get a midnight malt. I can't even drive myself to work. For crying out loud, I just put a new clutch in the car and finally replaced the stereo, and it's sitting in front of my parent's house. My dad has taken it out for a spin once a week or so. Hopefully he's figured out how to turn down the stereo, as I was listening to some pretty obnoxious trip hop at a louder than usual volume before all of this happened, and he couldn't figure out how to eject the CD when he went to pick up my car. (Picturing my not-so-tiny father driving my tiny little car listening to Moloko never ceases to crack me up.)

I've been catching rides with co-workers who live near me, but that doesn't help when it's late at night and I've run out of sour cream or when new movies are finally released on DVD and I don't have transportation to the nearest multimedia shop. For instance, I've been patiently waiting all summer for Chicago and Bowling for Columbine to be released. I'd carefully budgeted my money to cover the purchases (very carefully, since The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers comes out next week). Unfortunately, I didn't manage to drag myself to the local Media Play and I am not at this moment singing along happily to "Cell Block Tango," nor am I watching Michael Moore interview Marilyn Manson on the culture of fear. Why does Amazon not offer instantaneous shipping?

The litter box has proved to be a problem as well. There was no one available last week to change it, and my apartment was quite pungent, to say the least. Add to this problem the fact that Kismet will often show her displeasure over a soiled box by intentionally missing. So if I were to attempt to fix the problem myself, I would either have to sit on the floor and hope to avoid soggy smelly carpet, or I would have to balance on one leg, lean over the litter box, and try to juggle the scoop, the trash bag, and my crutches. Folks, I know my limits. The latter situation would have ended up with me tumbling headfirst into a giant tub of sand and cat doots. And this wasn't even taking into account that I would have to run the bag of cat poo downstairs to the trash cans, or that I was out of Nature's Miracle to treat the carpet. (Interestingly enough, Amazon also sells Nature's Miracle. I could've solved the DVD problem and the pet-odored carpet with one door-to-door delivery. Good to know!)

Thankfully, Mom picked up the Nature's Miracle last night while we ran errands, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern came over to change the cat box and hang out for a while. I was not overcome by ammonia fumes in the hallway this morning, and for this I am incredibly grateful. The kitties are happy, too.

I also have not figured out how to safely take a bath or shower, which is driving me particularly insane. Something as simple as taking a long hot bubble bath sounds particularly intoxicating, but I haven't got a clue how I would manage to get in or out of the tub without managing to injure myself further. And showering while balancing on one leg? I don't think so.

All of this will come with time, I suppose. I get to go to the orthopedist next week, and hopefully he'll be pleased with my progress. Hopefully I'll be upgraded to partial weight-bearing on the bad ankle. Hopefully soon I will be able to tool around in my little car, listening to weird music with the windows rolled down, on my way to some frivolous shopping. At this point, I'm probably about halfway there.

I've been trying to look for the lessons that Life is trying to teach me from this situation. So far, it looks like this:

Don't take the little things in life for granted.

When times get tough, a lot of people will offer to help you. Some are sincere, and some (though they may have the best of intentions) lack on the follow through. Learn who you can depend upon, and accept their offers of assistance gracefully. It doesn't make you any less of a grownup.

Patience, grasshopper. Patience.

Oh yeah, and one more thing: Amazon sells just about freakin' everything, and will deliver it to your door in a matter of days. Amazing.

Energy Crisis

I know it's incredibly lame of me to keep using the same excuses for not posting, but recuperating is sucking the energy out of my body. Doing simple tasks take forever and are exhausting. The narcotics aren't helping the situation much either; while the relief from pain is welcome, the constant haze it leaves me in makes it really difficult to get much of anything done without numerous naps.

My parents brought me home last Sunday, and made sure that I was settled in with a well stocked kitchen of food I could actually prepare while I was convalescing. The cats seemed to be happy to have me home, although they weren't thrilled about the fact that I had taken their footstool so I can keep my leg elevated. (They can no longer watch birds and passing traffic from the front window, and have to gaze out of one of the other eight million windows in the apartment.) They also seem to be a bit freaked out about the crutches, and have learned to give me a wide berth when I'm hobbling to the bathroom.

The kitties have also realized that I cannot discipline them as quickly as I used to, since it now takes me a few minutes to pop up from the couch and shoo them away from whatever it is that they shouldn't be doing. Needless to say, the gaping hole that Ma Huang has clawed into the back of the sectional has grown, and Kismet managed to knock the antenna off the television the other night. Apparently the sound of me hissing at them from the couch as I struggle to get up isn't all that threatening.

Oh, and one of them managed to chew through my phone cord while I was gone. Thanks, kids.

I went to the orthopedist last week to have the splint removed and get a boot cast. I was more than a bit curious to see exactly how much damage I'd done to my ankle; the sight of my swollen toes and the bright purple bruising that had extended above the knee had me fearing the worst. It actually wasn't that bad. The ankle was still pretty swollen, there were a few blisters that had dried and scabbed over (as well as one that had apparently been filled with blood and had dried black), and there were bruises on the back of my leg and the bottom of my foot that looked pretty nasty due to the constant elevation of my leg. There was a 2 inch incision on the left side of my ankle and a 3 - 4 inch one on the right side, both held together with surgical staples (20 in all, which the medical assistant removed). The doctor was pretty pleased with my progress, fitted me for the boot cast (which I am able to remove when I ice my ankle and when I bathe), gave me another prescription for Percocet, told me to work on flexing my ankle in a 90 degree angle (I have a slight case of foot drop), and sent me on my way.

I spent most of last week laying on the couch watching bad TV and reading various entertainment message boards. I had a few visitors (Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and JohnnyB stopped by last Monday and made lunch, and Zappagirl stopped in Thursday with a copy of Smokey and the Bandit from Netflix), but for the most part I was on my own. (Roger Mexico called a few times, since 500 miles is a bit far to drive to drop in for a visit. He's been busy as hell with classes and work and moving across town, so his phone calls were much appreciated and cheered me up immensely.) Admittedly, I got a little stir crazy last week. I'm really missing the freedom of running to the local Blockbuster on a whim.

I've had to become extremely resourceful and plan out every venture from the couch. It's not like I can make twenty seven trips to the kitchen whenever I want something. No more staring blanking into the open refrigerator, trying to decide if I'm hungry or not. (Lately, the answer has been no. I suppose that's a silver lining in all of this, right?) Every trip is mapped out - "OK, I need to refill my water. I need to go to the bathroom. And I suppose I should make some lunch while I'm up. A sandwich or something. Oh, and I forgot to take my vitamins this morning and I left my cel phone in the bedroom. And I need to ice my ankle for a bit, so I'll need to grab the ice pack and fill it. I think that's it. Here goes." Balancing all of this is a bit challenging since I have no free hands. I've been relying heavily on large pockets and my softsider lunchbox.

I went back to work this week. Ugh. You wouldn't think that a desk job would be that physically draining, but for the past few days I've come home completely exhausted. (Today was exceptionally bad, since I had to attend a staff meeting this afternoon on the second floor of my building. Stairs are still a major challenge.) I'm managing to muddle through, busying myself with cleaning up the messes that were made in my absence. I need to get things organized, since all hell will be breaking loose next week when most schools start back and we start scheduling tours and demos for the year. And it is good to be back, with something to keep my mind occupied that doesn't involve the reported awfulness of Gigli. I missed the people from work and the weirdness of trying to hold a conversation while various animals are running around the office and making noise in the background.

So things are progressing, albeit slowly. I successfully managed to hop up the stairs to my apartment last night rather than butt-scooting. (I felt like my heart was going to explode afterwards, but I still managed to do it.) I managed to wash my own hair tonight. Still haven't been brave enough to attempt the bath or shower yet. Hopefully I'll manage to do that soon; sponge bathing sucks. All I want to do is take a long hot bubble bath. And take out my trash. And get my mail. And go to Kings Island. And drive my car anywhere. And wear something besides shorts. And, oh yeah, I'd really like to be able to walk.

I suppose that will all happen soon enough. Baby steps....

I Love/Hate Percocet

I've been meaning to update my posts for the past few days, to let everyone know that I survived surgery and all, but I've had a hard time pulling together enough energy. And for once, that's not just a lame excuse.

My surgery was on Monday at 9:05 am, which meant I had to be at the hospital at 7:00 am. I was allowed nothing to eat or drink after midnight the previous evening. I know seven hours isn't a long time to fast, but anyone who knows me is more than quite aware of the fact that I am not a morning person. Myo at 5:45 am in lots of pain with very little sleep and no caffeine? Not a pretty picture. (Especially when I'm nervous on top of of that.)

After being shown to a small pre-op room and changing out of my street clothes and into a hospital gown, I was visited by a non-stop parade of hospital personnel who inserted IVs (on the first try!), explained the upcoming precedure, gave me more Versed to calm me down, and finally wheeled me down to the operating room. The last thing I remember was seeing a bottle of Diet Coke in the window above the scrub sinks as the anesthesiologist adjusted the oxygen mask over my face and injected whatever it was that it would make me sleep into my IV. Two thoughts crossed my mind: huh, the sleepy drugs kind of burn and I would do practically anything for that Diet Coke right now.

The next thing I knew I was in recovery with a nasal cannula stuck in my nose. Apparently, I was having a hard time waking up from the anesthesia, because they kept reminding me to take deep breaths through my nose. I glanced over at the screen recording my vitals. My respirations were 8? My oxygen saturation was 86%? Not good. I was too tired to panic, though.

Of course, not being able to wake up just made me panic more.

I finally was sent up to my room, where they kept me heavily dosed with more Percocet and informed me that they had placed 8 screws in my ankle. (And I even got an X ray of it. You can't see the little Craftsman logo on my ankle, though.) Everything had apparently gone smoothly and I would be allowed to have a dinner tray that evening (hooray!) of chicken broth and jello (boo!). The hot tea was nice, though. My throat was incredibly sore from the anesthesia. The nurse also managed to scrounge up a Diet Coke for me. I immediately proclaimed it the best Diet Coke I've ever had.

I was kept overnight for observation, as expected. The overnight stay sucked. I was in extreme pain, which was kept in control by the steady stream of Percocet brought to me by my nurses. Unfortunately they were giving me so much that speaking without slurring or getting up to go to the bathroom was a challenge. (They were giving me two pills every three hours in the hospital; at home I'm allowed one every four to six hours. You do the math.)

I had a semi-private room, which meant I had a roommate. I can only assume she was there for the insertion of a personality, since all I know about her was that she had her TV on twice as loud as mine and went outside every chance she got to smoke. (Actually she must have been in a lot of pain, since she was on morphine, but I doubt that running outside to suck down a few full-flavor cigarettes was doing her body any favors.)

My mother brought me back to her house Tuesday afternoon. Since then I've been alternating between short bouts of drug induced sleep, watching entirely too much TV, eating, and hopping from room to room on my crutches (and collapsing in sheer exhaustion once I reach my destination). My computer time has been severely curtailed, since the computer is in the basement and I have to butt-scoot down the steps to get there. (As my niece put it the other night, "Can Aunt Myo come downstairs with her butt?")

I'm supposed to be going home tomorrow afternoon. I'm a little apprehensive, since it means I will be completely on my own and at this point I can't carry a drink into another room. I will be glad to get home though. I miss my cats terribly; I got to see them briefly last Friday night when my parents and I stopped by to pick up clothes and other necessities. (Zappagirl's been checking in on them, and says they're fine.)

I hate being so helpless. I can't even wash my own hair or get my own coffee at this point. I almost dropped from exhaustion after going down three aisles at Walgreens yesterday. Thankfully I have an incredibly supportive group of family and friends who have kept me sane and sent cards, flowers, good thoughts, chocolate and ice cream. Mucho thanks to Mom, Dad, Sydney (and Allison and Amanda), Roger Mexico, Rosencrantz, Zappagirl, Jooles, Mary and Lee, Doris and Jerry, and everyone from work. I appreciate everything you've done for me.

Ugh. My ankle is throbbing now, telling me I need to drag myself back up the steps. My life is no longer measured in coffee spoons; it's now measured in icepacks and class 2 narcotic dosages. How unpoetic.