Well needless to say, they got 'er done. The left foot. All reshaped while my Achilles remained intact. It took another year of physio , but the doc delivered on all three of his promises. I would never again have the rotational capability of a healthy ankle but the mobility was increased, the up and down of inclines, stairs and hills was dramatically improved and best of all, the pain associated with simple act of walking was reduced significantly.
The strengthening of the calf muscle in my left leg became the most difficult task. Seems once you lose the mass of a calf muscle that has been built up over a life time, the atrophy resulting from an injury like mine, is almost irreparable. Hours upon hours, days, weeks and months over many years with weights at the gym and still it is not the way it once was.
I even tried, about two years post accident, to make a come back at the dojun. It was not to be. The joint in my ankle no longer had the prerequisite pivot that was necessary for so much in Ti Kwon Do. And the impact of running was not something the doctors encouraged because the cartilage that is the shock absorber between the leg and the heel was no more. Gone. "Gone where"? I inquired. Just compromised such that the intended function could no longer be supported.
The martial arts were at an end. Looking back, it seems all of it was simply so I could lose the weight and get ready for that split second maneuver, that would save my life. Golf too, was over. But if you ever had the pleasure of witnessing my golf game, that was just a blessing for all involved. Hockey. Gone. Skating. Gone. Running. Finished. And all things associated with running. Done.
Now, fifteen years later, I am usually able to walk with out a noticeable limp. I say usually cause, every once in a while, right out of the blue, without any fore warning what so ever, I can wake up on any given morning and the foot is so sore I can't even stand on it let alone walk. It takes about twenty four hours for the pain to ease off. I begin with stretches and massage. Then I very gingerly begin putting weight on the foot, with more stretching and massage and gradually work up to walking with the aid of my upper body taking most of the load by holding on to stationary items and hopping. Over the course of a day the pain dissipates. Completely and totally. And may not return again for months.
I tried journalling my activities over the course of a day, for about eight months. I was hoping to figure out if there was any pattern to my activities that might hint as to what I'm doing to cause the relapses to occur. Nothing ever became evident. So I lived with it and it soon became a distant memory as the next phase of the trial began.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Left vs Right - Post #15
Nurse number three enters the scene. She is here to transfer me from the sticky bench to the operating arena. The sound of my suctioned butt pulling free from the bench is quite audible in the quiet of the waiting room as I hop to the wheel chair. Just out of curiosity, I ask the nurse, "Tell me, what ankle does your chart indicate is the ankle of concern today"? She grabs the chart, scans it over and replies with "The right one". I respond with the same question poised back at the beginning of all this and she says she must have an older copy of the requisition issued earlier this morning. She assures me that the computer must have been updated by now. Of course I need ask "what is the possibility that the surgeon is working with a less than up-to-date copy of the chart"? She assures me that doesn't happen. I wonder if there is any value in pointing out that it seems to have happened three times now and it's not even ten AM.
I am positioned out side two very large stainless steel doors in a very large cold and bare warehouse like room which, it becomes apparent over the next fifteen minutes of sitting there, that I am in the anti room to the operating theatre. I know this 'cause I can hear very clearly, chains a clanking, buzz saws a buzzing, and grinders a grinding. There's no one else in the place. Just me and the sound effects, all of which serves to up the anxiety level to an amber alert.
Nurse Four wheels in a gurney and approaches me and my chair. She's all smiles an cheery and tells me it's time. I am to transfer to the roll away, begin sedation and the surgery should be underway in about fifteen minutes. I once again ask the required question and once again the chart revels that there is no change to the hospitals understanding of what is really going on here. I begin to freak out. Not only might I have to have my Achilles tendon disconnected, it now seems possible that I might have both disconnected once they figure all this out.
"Mam, I am very reluctant to begin sedation until somebody around here can definitively assure me that the foot requiring our attention today is identified as the proper foot which is, once again, the left foot. Not the incorrect, wrong, right foot. But the left foot. That one right there". I point. "Very confusing I know". Abandoning all equipment, she smiles and says "I'll be right back".
More buzz saws and chains a rattling for the next ten minutes as I try and calm. Sedation sure would be good for us all at this point, but I think you can appreciate my concern. In comes the doctor. My surgeon. All smiles and business like in his scrubs with a mask hanging from his left ear. "Good morning Mr. Dufus, I understand we have some confusion here".
"Well actually Doc, there is no confusion here with me. It seems however, all of the nurses I've seen so far this morning believe you are going after the incorrect, right foot, not the correct, left". He whips out his black magic marker from his pocket and replys "Let's clear all this up, right here, right now. Leaning over he puts a big black 'X' on my left foot and steps back smiling as he admires his solution. I look at the 'X', and then look the doc in the eye and say "I'd sure feel a lot better about all of this if you put a big black arrow on my right with a wee note saying 'See Left Foot'.
I am positioned out side two very large stainless steel doors in a very large cold and bare warehouse like room which, it becomes apparent over the next fifteen minutes of sitting there, that I am in the anti room to the operating theatre. I know this 'cause I can hear very clearly, chains a clanking, buzz saws a buzzing, and grinders a grinding. There's no one else in the place. Just me and the sound effects, all of which serves to up the anxiety level to an amber alert.
Nurse Four wheels in a gurney and approaches me and my chair. She's all smiles an cheery and tells me it's time. I am to transfer to the roll away, begin sedation and the surgery should be underway in about fifteen minutes. I once again ask the required question and once again the chart revels that there is no change to the hospitals understanding of what is really going on here. I begin to freak out. Not only might I have to have my Achilles tendon disconnected, it now seems possible that I might have both disconnected once they figure all this out.
"Mam, I am very reluctant to begin sedation until somebody around here can definitively assure me that the foot requiring our attention today is identified as the proper foot which is, once again, the left foot. Not the incorrect, wrong, right foot. But the left foot. That one right there". I point. "Very confusing I know". Abandoning all equipment, she smiles and says "I'll be right back".
More buzz saws and chains a rattling for the next ten minutes as I try and calm. Sedation sure would be good for us all at this point, but I think you can appreciate my concern. In comes the doctor. My surgeon. All smiles and business like in his scrubs with a mask hanging from his left ear. "Good morning Mr. Dufus, I understand we have some confusion here".
"Well actually Doc, there is no confusion here with me. It seems however, all of the nurses I've seen so far this morning believe you are going after the incorrect, right foot, not the correct, left". He whips out his black magic marker from his pocket and replys "Let's clear all this up, right here, right now. Leaning over he puts a big black 'X' on my left foot and steps back smiling as he admires his solution. I look at the 'X', and then look the doc in the eye and say "I'd sure feel a lot better about all of this if you put a big black arrow on my right with a wee note saying 'See Left Foot'.
Day Surgery - Post #14
I've heard that an Achilles tendon, once severed or pulled, or in this case disconnected, is never the same again. Given the difference between the size of my right and left calf muscles, I am expecting to be undergoing a lot of exercise of my left leg if I am ever to build the muscle up to what it once was. Voluntarily offering up to possibly disconnect makes absolutely no sense to me. But what do I know? I fell off a ladder!
I am convinced by a very convincing doctor that the form must be signed in order to proceed. And he assures me, the likely hood of him proceeding with said procedure is less than twenty percent. Not the best odds, but certainly not the worst. I sign 'em up.
Day surgery. In an out in a matter of hours. I arrive the day of, and, after the prerequisite forms in triplicate and the installation of my new wrist bracelet, I am shuffled off to the telephone booth to dawn the ever famous Dignity Gown. Faded blue. Why they require my butt to be hanging out for all to see in order to get my ankle repaired is beyond me but that seems to be the case regardless of your ailment. I think somebody, somewhere decided that everyones ass need be exposed in order for doctors to optimally function.
I am sitting on the proverbial Group W Bench in the waiting room with me arse stuck to the cold vinyl when the first nurse arrives on the scene. She starts firing questions and jotting down notes on the clip board, one of which kinda grabs my attention from all the rest. "So I understand we are here for surgery on the right calcaneus"? There's that 'we' again. My response, "when you say the 'right' do you really mean 'the correct' or do you mean the 'not left'? Cause I can assure you, the ankle in question is definitely the left". "Oh" says she. "The computer report indicates the right ankle. I'll get that up dated right away". "Yes, please do", says I.
Twenty minutes of uncomfortable shifting of stuck bum on sticky bench when in comes Nurse Two. "Good morning Mr. Dufus. I understand we will be having surgery on the right ankle today. I'll need some blood before we get started". "Uhhhhhhh, I just spoke to a nurse about twenty minutes ago about that right ankle thing. The correct ankle is the left ankle. The left is the ankle that requires the doctors attention I assure you. Not the right ankle. The info in your computer is incorrect. She promised she'd fix that". "No worries" she says. "We'll get that updated right away. Right arm please".
Now I am sitting here without a cast on my left foot. The cast has been off for some time now. Even the swelling and the discoloration that identified the badly broken left from the not-so-badly-broken right has all but disappeared. I start thinking, how are they going to be absolutely and without a doubt sure, and get this right? I mean left. I mean correct. And that means do the left foot. I was told that I'm out cold and won't be around to tell them whats what. Clearly there is some serious confusion surrounding this rather basic issue. You hear disturbing stories coming out of hospitals about amputating the wrong leg etc, and I begin to wonder if this is possible or are they just playing out another standard gag to kinda wind up the already somewhat agitated patient.
I am convinced by a very convincing doctor that the form must be signed in order to proceed. And he assures me, the likely hood of him proceeding with said procedure is less than twenty percent. Not the best odds, but certainly not the worst. I sign 'em up.
Day surgery. In an out in a matter of hours. I arrive the day of, and, after the prerequisite forms in triplicate and the installation of my new wrist bracelet, I am shuffled off to the telephone booth to dawn the ever famous Dignity Gown. Faded blue. Why they require my butt to be hanging out for all to see in order to get my ankle repaired is beyond me but that seems to be the case regardless of your ailment. I think somebody, somewhere decided that everyones ass need be exposed in order for doctors to optimally function.
I am sitting on the proverbial Group W Bench in the waiting room with me arse stuck to the cold vinyl when the first nurse arrives on the scene. She starts firing questions and jotting down notes on the clip board, one of which kinda grabs my attention from all the rest. "So I understand we are here for surgery on the right calcaneus"? There's that 'we' again. My response, "when you say the 'right' do you really mean 'the correct' or do you mean the 'not left'? Cause I can assure you, the ankle in question is definitely the left". "Oh" says she. "The computer report indicates the right ankle. I'll get that up dated right away". "Yes, please do", says I.
Twenty minutes of uncomfortable shifting of stuck bum on sticky bench when in comes Nurse Two. "Good morning Mr. Dufus. I understand we will be having surgery on the right ankle today. I'll need some blood before we get started". "Uhhhhhhh, I just spoke to a nurse about twenty minutes ago about that right ankle thing. The correct ankle is the left ankle. The left is the ankle that requires the doctors attention I assure you. Not the right ankle. The info in your computer is incorrect. She promised she'd fix that". "No worries" she says. "We'll get that updated right away. Right arm please".
Now I am sitting here without a cast on my left foot. The cast has been off for some time now. Even the swelling and the discoloration that identified the badly broken left from the not-so-badly-broken right has all but disappeared. I start thinking, how are they going to be absolutely and without a doubt sure, and get this right? I mean left. I mean correct. And that means do the left foot. I was told that I'm out cold and won't be around to tell them whats what. Clearly there is some serious confusion surrounding this rather basic issue. You hear disturbing stories coming out of hospitals about amputating the wrong leg etc, and I begin to wonder if this is possible or are they just playing out another standard gag to kinda wind up the already somewhat agitated patient.
The Disconnect - Post #13
Physio was a bitch. Not the lady running the place. She was a genius. But the toughest thing I had ever done in my life to that point was, without a doubt, beginning to walk again. It took two very difficult years. To this day, now fifteen years later, my left calf muscle is still two inches in diameter smaller than my right. When I first came out of the brace is was almost four! A twig of a thing. And oh so sore. Every time I moved the ankle, even the slightest amount. No weight bearing for months in the beginning. Just working with a large piece of stretchy rubber to provide some resistance to pushing the foot forwards and back. Over and over and over again. For hours a day. Trying to obtain any circular rotation from the joint was next to impossible.
Eventually I was able to move to muscle building weight machines which helped but the joint just couldn't move as it should and any weight bearing was, well un 'bearing' able.
Close to eighteen months passed, when it became evident surgery was likely warranted as we realized we had achieved all we could under present conditions. The shape of the heal bone had been altered from the shattering and the myriad of micro cracks throughout had filled in pushing the bone out in all directions. This made the heel ever so slightly larger than it was originally and therefore impeded the movement in the joint. A referral was made by my physio therapist to the head of the Toronto Western Hospital Orthopedic department for a consultation.
X-rays revealed that things could be improved. Maybe a lot. I was told that he could provide me with three things.
Better mobility and, ultimately, strength when walking up and down stairs and inclines,
2. An increase in my rotational capability of the left / right movement of the ankle and,
3, Less pain in my day to day movement in the ankle.
"Guaranteed"? I says.
"Guaranteed". He says.
The surgery is booked. What they are going to do, essentially involves, what I envision to be, a Black and Decker grinder. The skin around the ankle is to be pulled back, exposing where the heel bone sits in/under the lower left side of the tibia, and the heel bone will be ground down or reshaped if you will, to a slightly smaller size allowing for a freer, unimpeded movement against the tibia. Eliminating or reducing this 'rub' will go a long way to assisting in all three of the areas above. I'm in.
"What's the downside"? I asks.
"Well I need you to sign a waver giving us permission to disconnect your Achilles tendon from your heel if, when we get in there, we find it necessary.
"Whoa"! Says I.
Eventually I was able to move to muscle building weight machines which helped but the joint just couldn't move as it should and any weight bearing was, well un 'bearing' able.
Close to eighteen months passed, when it became evident surgery was likely warranted as we realized we had achieved all we could under present conditions. The shape of the heal bone had been altered from the shattering and the myriad of micro cracks throughout had filled in pushing the bone out in all directions. This made the heel ever so slightly larger than it was originally and therefore impeded the movement in the joint. A referral was made by my physio therapist to the head of the Toronto Western Hospital Orthopedic department for a consultation.
X-rays revealed that things could be improved. Maybe a lot. I was told that he could provide me with three things.
Better mobility and, ultimately, strength when walking up and down stairs and inclines,
2. An increase in my rotational capability of the left / right movement of the ankle and,
3, Less pain in my day to day movement in the ankle.
"Guaranteed"? I says.
"Guaranteed". He says.
The surgery is booked. What they are going to do, essentially involves, what I envision to be, a Black and Decker grinder. The skin around the ankle is to be pulled back, exposing where the heel bone sits in/under the lower left side of the tibia, and the heel bone will be ground down or reshaped if you will, to a slightly smaller size allowing for a freer, unimpeded movement against the tibia. Eliminating or reducing this 'rub' will go a long way to assisting in all three of the areas above. I'm in.
"What's the downside"? I asks.
"Well I need you to sign a waver giving us permission to disconnect your Achilles tendon from your heel if, when we get in there, we find it necessary.
"Whoa"! Says I.
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Princess Di - Post #12
The shattering of my left ankle was a turning point in my life. Very suddenly, I am physically limited in my capacity for the first time. The house was revamped to allow me to work from a home office, in bed, and navigate the upstairs only, by crutch and / or wheel chair. Angel put up with me for about two weeks while I kept the legs elevated, hollered for room service and mostly drove her insane. Until she'd had enough. She then contacted my boss, had him swing by the house daily, pick me and the wheel chair up, and cart the whole gong show off to the office. And I can tell you for certain, there wasn't much in the way of room service going on over there.
But I persevered. And if it's all about perspective, then my view of the world from a wheel chair was an eye opener indeed. The house, being a bungalow was easily navigated and I got self sufficient in no time being able to manage all aspects of my daily life where needed. The finished basement of the house was off limits because with two broken feet, crutch transport was a scary venture, and up and down stairs was just out of the question. I suggested Angel carry me once or twice, and that was usually met with her departing to go out with girl friends, leaving me stranded. She had me trained in no time. Dependency is a very scary concept when it comes into your life. But I was blessed to be surrounded by a myriad of good people, all willing to pitch in and help.
I am forced to slow down what was a previously, a very hectic pace of life. And re prioritize. Six weeks of relying on everyone else, where up until now, everyone had pretty much relied on me, was a humbling experience. And I appreciated everything so much more. Now I made time daily to read a book, play with the kids, and spend quality down time with Angel at the end of each day. A forced eye opener. And while I was to recover, and begin to crank up the pace once again, I could never do so like I once did due to the bum ankle.
I remember so clearly the day that Princess Di had her tragic accident. I had not done a thing, other than to and from work, to get out and start living again, when Angel came to me on that fateful day in August 1997. She tells me we're going to the pub. We load the car and head out to meet a group of friends. I can still remember having the best time in a long time, that night, with friends, quaffin' pints and wheeling around the pub.
Then the news bulletin interrupted the broadcast of the soccer game. That pub immediately transformed to deathly quiet as we all took in the graphic detail provided by the very paparazzi on the scene, who were later blamed (somewhat) for the accident in the first place. My first conscious thought, if you will, of my fate, in comparison to another's, with the inevitable conclusion that I am indeed, so lucky to have made it through the way I did.
I was to get out of that chair after the prescribed six weeks and with the help of crutches begin my first foray into the world of physio therapy. And fortunately, that world, provided me with another angel.
But I persevered. And if it's all about perspective, then my view of the world from a wheel chair was an eye opener indeed. The house, being a bungalow was easily navigated and I got self sufficient in no time being able to manage all aspects of my daily life where needed. The finished basement of the house was off limits because with two broken feet, crutch transport was a scary venture, and up and down stairs was just out of the question. I suggested Angel carry me once or twice, and that was usually met with her departing to go out with girl friends, leaving me stranded. She had me trained in no time. Dependency is a very scary concept when it comes into your life. But I was blessed to be surrounded by a myriad of good people, all willing to pitch in and help.
I am forced to slow down what was a previously, a very hectic pace of life. And re prioritize. Six weeks of relying on everyone else, where up until now, everyone had pretty much relied on me, was a humbling experience. And I appreciated everything so much more. Now I made time daily to read a book, play with the kids, and spend quality down time with Angel at the end of each day. A forced eye opener. And while I was to recover, and begin to crank up the pace once again, I could never do so like I once did due to the bum ankle.
I remember so clearly the day that Princess Di had her tragic accident. I had not done a thing, other than to and from work, to get out and start living again, when Angel came to me on that fateful day in August 1997. She tells me we're going to the pub. We load the car and head out to meet a group of friends. I can still remember having the best time in a long time, that night, with friends, quaffin' pints and wheeling around the pub.
Then the news bulletin interrupted the broadcast of the soccer game. That pub immediately transformed to deathly quiet as we all took in the graphic detail provided by the very paparazzi on the scene, who were later blamed (somewhat) for the accident in the first place. My first conscious thought, if you will, of my fate, in comparison to another's, with the inevitable conclusion that I am indeed, so lucky to have made it through the way I did.
I was to get out of that chair after the prescribed six weeks and with the help of crutches begin my first foray into the world of physio therapy. And fortunately, that world, provided me with another angel.
Friday, 16 March 2012
The Bait and Switch - Post #11
Day four and I'm told by the night nurse I'm going home tomorrow. Guess there's high vacancy at the Chateau 'cause they don't seem too concerned about shipping me out. Originally I was told that today would likely be the day.
Somewhere in the haze that was yesterday, the hefty dose of morphine was replaced by oral oxy. Not quite the same quick hit but certainly good for long term relief and sound, uninterrupted sleep. Even on the ward. And now with the change over complete, I am all set up for check out tomorrow morning. The doctor had come and gone telling me to keep both legs elevated, above my heart, more often than not, and I will need to attend weekly fracture clinics here at the hospital, over the next six weeks.
He has not painted a very rosy, long term picture for me and my left foot. He states once again, that the ankle will never be the same and that I have a lot of work with physiotherapy ahead of me. The good news is, and there is always some good news, I have survived this little ordeal extremely well. The Doc informs me that the statistics covering falls from fifteen feet or more, indicate that fifty percent wind up dead or with some form of paralysis or brain damage. Fifty percent! Guess landing right side up was the thing to do. I won't be dancing, but I will be mobile. Under my own steam. In spite of my bad decision. So I have to chalk this one up to being rather fortunate in the grand scheme of things. It's always about perspective.
Shortly after he clears out, I'm sitting there all alone, thinking ok, it's not great. But it could have been so much worse. I'm trying to focus on the I'm-a-pretty-lucky-guy-in-the -grand-scheme-of-things, when in walks this stunning little cutie in the candy striper dress, with the long blond, and curvy this and that, and she comes sliding up to bed side oozing this sultry, playful attitude and she takes my hand and says "Hey there Dufus, so how about that bath today? It's been three days and I'm sure we could use that bath by now, don't you agree"? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more! SAY NO MORE!!
Now the 'we' in that question needs no pondering and without even thinking about it, I'm in! "Yes mam! What an excellent suggestion. Hot bath? I could really use a hot bath today. Yes my dear! Absolutely, but I'm quite sure I'm gonna need a little help though".
"Not a problem" she replies. And leaves the room.
Two minutes later...............................wait for it............................
in comes a wheel chair................................ manned by the Black and White!!!!!!!!!
"So Mr. Dufus, I understand we have decided to have a bath today. Excellent", she says. "I'll go book the room and be back in a few minutes to get us started".
Three days of drugs were just too much for me to see that coming. Gotta be the oldest trick in the book. In every hospital ever built. And I pitched in with both feet. I should have had pages to write about here. Instead, suffice it to say, I was cleaned up and I was checked out. And I was sent home to six weeks of major adjustment.
Son of a bitch!
Somewhere in the haze that was yesterday, the hefty dose of morphine was replaced by oral oxy. Not quite the same quick hit but certainly good for long term relief and sound, uninterrupted sleep. Even on the ward. And now with the change over complete, I am all set up for check out tomorrow morning. The doctor had come and gone telling me to keep both legs elevated, above my heart, more often than not, and I will need to attend weekly fracture clinics here at the hospital, over the next six weeks.
He has not painted a very rosy, long term picture for me and my left foot. He states once again, that the ankle will never be the same and that I have a lot of work with physiotherapy ahead of me. The good news is, and there is always some good news, I have survived this little ordeal extremely well. The Doc informs me that the statistics covering falls from fifteen feet or more, indicate that fifty percent wind up dead or with some form of paralysis or brain damage. Fifty percent! Guess landing right side up was the thing to do. I won't be dancing, but I will be mobile. Under my own steam. In spite of my bad decision. So I have to chalk this one up to being rather fortunate in the grand scheme of things. It's always about perspective.
Shortly after he clears out, I'm sitting there all alone, thinking ok, it's not great. But it could have been so much worse. I'm trying to focus on the I'm-a-pretty-lucky-guy-in-the -grand-scheme-of-things, when in walks this stunning little cutie in the candy striper dress, with the long blond, and curvy this and that, and she comes sliding up to bed side oozing this sultry, playful attitude and she takes my hand and says "Hey there Dufus, so how about that bath today? It's been three days and I'm sure we could use that bath by now, don't you agree"? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more! SAY NO MORE!!
Now the 'we' in that question needs no pondering and without even thinking about it, I'm in! "Yes mam! What an excellent suggestion. Hot bath? I could really use a hot bath today. Yes my dear! Absolutely, but I'm quite sure I'm gonna need a little help though".
"Not a problem" she replies. And leaves the room.
Two minutes later...............................wait for it............................
in comes a wheel chair................................ manned by the Black and White!!!!!!!!!
"So Mr. Dufus, I understand we have decided to have a bath today. Excellent", she says. "I'll go book the room and be back in a few minutes to get us started".
Three days of drugs were just too much for me to see that coming. Gotta be the oldest trick in the book. In every hospital ever built. And I pitched in with both feet. I should have had pages to write about here. Instead, suffice it to say, I was cleaned up and I was checked out. And I was sent home to six weeks of major adjustment.
Son of a bitch!
Friday, 9 March 2012
Day Three - Post #10
The third day of my stay begins with a moment of the old deja vu. Somewhat a kin to what Bill Murray experienced in his blockbuster "Ground Hog Day'. I was peacefully floating in a dreamscape above a cumulonimbus cloud when the shutters are thrown back, blades of sunlight stab the room and the larger than life shadow of the black and white hippo that is Mrs. Doubtfire, settles upon me. "Mr. Dufus. Will we be having a bath today"?
Now I had spent a substantial amount of time, during some of my more lucid moments between injections, contemplating yesterdays question as posed. As such, I was prepared. I'm ready, I'm feeling sharp and I got this one. Without out skipping a beat, I reply with a "Not today mam, but thank you just the same". A Medusa like stare. Silence. She departs.
And then the doctor came in. Not stinking of gin. And not proceeding to lie on the table. He say's "Dufus you met your match". I say's "Doc it's only a scratch. And I'll be better, I'll be better Doc, just as soon as I am able". So the doctor tells me the swelling has deflated enough to set the bone. And we will be doing that later today. The 'we' in that statement I understand fully. Exit the doctor to return later today.
The setting of the bone was the simplest I had ever witnessed. He shows up with a techie of some sort who is preceded into the room by a mobile cart he's steering, filled with what appears to be art supplies. While the techie starts unwrapping packages of gauze, cotton mesh and popping tubs of Plaster o' Paris, the doctor is staring at my left foot. When the techie is all set to go, the doctor leans in, and with his extended middle finger on his right hand, he ever so gently touches the underside of my foot and begins to push the foot towards me. I can't feel a thing. Yea morphine! When he has reached the optimal angle he stops pushing and holds. He turns to the techie and says "Go". The tech lays a piece of wet fiber glass stripping along the back side of my calf, down my leg, around the heal and up the underside of my foot. Every one freezes for about five minutes for the fiber to set. And that was essentially that. They had to add a few more layers and wrap it all up followed by your standard, everyday, common type cast to the right foot and I was 'good to go'!
Many years later, I came to understand that the angle he set my foot at that day, was to make a huge difference in my ability to recover and walk somewhat normally once again. The angle he chose, without scopes or diagrams or charts or pictures, (I guess he had already reviewed those prior), was more conducive to walking up an incline, as opposed to walking down. My left foot would never again have the typical rotational characteristics you'd expect from a healthy ankle. That was understood. But the ability to walk up hill or climb stairs, was what he was going for. Down hill would always be aided by gravity and therefore not todays priority. Brilliant in it's simplicity. And given the significant amount of controversy surrounding the possible varied treatments for this injury, I am so grateful to that doctor to this day, that he decided to proceed as he did.
Now I had spent a substantial amount of time, during some of my more lucid moments between injections, contemplating yesterdays question as posed. As such, I was prepared. I'm ready, I'm feeling sharp and I got this one. Without out skipping a beat, I reply with a "Not today mam, but thank you just the same". A Medusa like stare. Silence. She departs.
And then the doctor came in. Not stinking of gin. And not proceeding to lie on the table. He say's "Dufus you met your match". I say's "Doc it's only a scratch. And I'll be better, I'll be better Doc, just as soon as I am able". So the doctor tells me the swelling has deflated enough to set the bone. And we will be doing that later today. The 'we' in that statement I understand fully. Exit the doctor to return later today.
The setting of the bone was the simplest I had ever witnessed. He shows up with a techie of some sort who is preceded into the room by a mobile cart he's steering, filled with what appears to be art supplies. While the techie starts unwrapping packages of gauze, cotton mesh and popping tubs of Plaster o' Paris, the doctor is staring at my left foot. When the techie is all set to go, the doctor leans in, and with his extended middle finger on his right hand, he ever so gently touches the underside of my foot and begins to push the foot towards me. I can't feel a thing. Yea morphine! When he has reached the optimal angle he stops pushing and holds. He turns to the techie and says "Go". The tech lays a piece of wet fiber glass stripping along the back side of my calf, down my leg, around the heal and up the underside of my foot. Every one freezes for about five minutes for the fiber to set. And that was essentially that. They had to add a few more layers and wrap it all up followed by your standard, everyday, common type cast to the right foot and I was 'good to go'!
Many years later, I came to understand that the angle he set my foot at that day, was to make a huge difference in my ability to recover and walk somewhat normally once again. The angle he chose, without scopes or diagrams or charts or pictures, (I guess he had already reviewed those prior), was more conducive to walking up an incline, as opposed to walking down. My left foot would never again have the typical rotational characteristics you'd expect from a healthy ankle. That was understood. But the ability to walk up hill or climb stairs, was what he was going for. Down hill would always be aided by gravity and therefore not todays priority. Brilliant in it's simplicity. And given the significant amount of controversy surrounding the possible varied treatments for this injury, I am so grateful to that doctor to this day, that he decided to proceed as he did.
Diagnosis - Post #9
Day two at Le Chateau opens with what sounds vaguely like a women's voice echoing somewhere off in the distance. "Good morning Mr. Dufus. How are we today"? I open my eyes and, although blurry, not so blurry that I don't quickly realize I have the most beautiful women hovering in the cloud above my bed. Firing on all cylinders I quickly respond with "OMG!! I guess I died in the night 'cause you've got to be an angel"! Heh, heh, heh......
Not the case. My GP was out of town at the time of the accident so she had left her responsibilities with an associate from her practice. She gets to break the news of the damage and informs me that the orthopedic surgeon will be in later today to suggest a course of treatment. Excellent. So long as it involves plenty more o' the morphine that got me so pleasantly through the night.
The surgeon arrives later that morning to inform me that "The right foot is going to be just fine". That's the good news. "The left unfortunately", not his words, "will never be the same" due to the previously explained diagnosis. Further good news indicates that there will be no pins, nor plates, nor rods involved. In fact, no surgery at all.
There are two methods of treatment for shattered calcaneus. Operative and non- operative, depending on the amount of damage. Both are limited in there capacity to actually correct the problem to pre trauma condition. Mine will be the non-operative fix. They simply wait for the swelling to diminish to set the feet, cast 'em, and then I will be on my way. The right need be cast for the same period of time. Immobilized for a period of six weeks. Most excellent. My first experience with life in a wheel chair. But only for six weeks. And I do get to walk away. Sort of. Maybe more like hobble away. I am left to contemplate further on just what I was thinking. Fortunately the drugs have me on my return flight to Never Never Land in no time.
Later that very same morning, I am rather rudely awakened by a very large, very matter-of-fact, Mrs Doubtfire kind of a nurse, who comes bullying into my room, tosses the drapes open, and says "Good morning Mr. Dufus. Will we (?) be having a bath today?"
The sunlight floods the room. "Uhhhhhh pardon me?". I do believe I am in the throws of a drug induced nightmare that involves a talking hippo in a nurses cap. "Hello?? What was that you said? Are you speaking? To me?" Nurse Ratchet repeats, "Will we be having a bath today?"
Tough question to respond to in the state I currently find myself. The part that concerns me most is the reference to "we". Never having been in this incapacitated condition before, I quickly, or as quickly as a drug induced coma can allow, try to assess what exactly she means by 'we'. Seems like five minutes go by as images of me, ridin' the black and white hippo, bare back, in a bath tub, flood my mind. Yikes!!!!
"Uhhhhhh, you know, I really haven't been, uhhhh, doing a lot lately. Just a short flight from a ladder.....And I really wasn't, uhhhhh workin' very hard. Gravity did most of the work. I really feel, uhhhh surprisingly refreshed this morning.... all things considered. I think I'll pass". She exits without further comment.
Not the case. My GP was out of town at the time of the accident so she had left her responsibilities with an associate from her practice. She gets to break the news of the damage and informs me that the orthopedic surgeon will be in later today to suggest a course of treatment. Excellent. So long as it involves plenty more o' the morphine that got me so pleasantly through the night.
The surgeon arrives later that morning to inform me that "The right foot is going to be just fine". That's the good news. "The left unfortunately", not his words, "will never be the same" due to the previously explained diagnosis. Further good news indicates that there will be no pins, nor plates, nor rods involved. In fact, no surgery at all.
There are two methods of treatment for shattered calcaneus. Operative and non- operative, depending on the amount of damage. Both are limited in there capacity to actually correct the problem to pre trauma condition. Mine will be the non-operative fix. They simply wait for the swelling to diminish to set the feet, cast 'em, and then I will be on my way. The right need be cast for the same period of time. Immobilized for a period of six weeks. Most excellent. My first experience with life in a wheel chair. But only for six weeks. And I do get to walk away. Sort of. Maybe more like hobble away. I am left to contemplate further on just what I was thinking. Fortunately the drugs have me on my return flight to Never Never Land in no time.
Later that very same morning, I am rather rudely awakened by a very large, very matter-of-fact, Mrs Doubtfire kind of a nurse, who comes bullying into my room, tosses the drapes open, and says "Good morning Mr. Dufus. Will we (?) be having a bath today?"
The sunlight floods the room. "Uhhhhhh pardon me?". I do believe I am in the throws of a drug induced nightmare that involves a talking hippo in a nurses cap. "Hello?? What was that you said? Are you speaking? To me?" Nurse Ratchet repeats, "Will we be having a bath today?"
Tough question to respond to in the state I currently find myself. The part that concerns me most is the reference to "we". Never having been in this incapacitated condition before, I quickly, or as quickly as a drug induced coma can allow, try to assess what exactly she means by 'we'. Seems like five minutes go by as images of me, ridin' the black and white hippo, bare back, in a bath tub, flood my mind. Yikes!!!!
"Uhhhhhh, you know, I really haven't been, uhhhh, doing a lot lately. Just a short flight from a ladder.....And I really wasn't, uhhhhh workin' very hard. Gravity did most of the work. I really feel, uhhhh surprisingly refreshed this morning.... all things considered. I think I'll pass". She exits without further comment.
Le Chateau Reperation - Post #8
My stay at Chateau la Reparation was four days deep. Day One highlights involved check in, lot's of fancy pictures, a tray of really shitty food and ................drugs! My first taste of morphine brought me the blessed pain relief I so badly needed. It had been about four hours since impact by the time they had decided that 'feet' were the only issue. Not head. Not neck or back and certainly not cut lip. Which had to be explained to every nurse in emergency through out each shift as they arrived. With Angel receiving, what I felt was, an inordinate amount of praise, high fives and 'Go Girl" from most of 'em for Clockin' the Dufus in the manner that she did. But yes, I deserved it.
Rather remarkable stuff, morphine. Little did I know that much later in my life, it would become a staple of my daily diet. But for now, the blessed relief was almost instantaneous following injection. And every muscle that had been straining and screaming and tensed beyond capacity for the last four hours, suddenly released and relaxed and I could lay back and close my eyes.
I was sleeping when they came to transfer me out of emergency to admit me to my own room. The x-rays had indicated that the damage was significant enough that I would need to be admitted for a few days. Primarily so the 'Feet Bags' could deflate which would then allow the doctors to decide how they are going to treat. And what was to treat, was two broken feet. One simple. One not so much. Unbeknownst to me at the time, of course, was the knowledge that the ankle is deemed the most complicated joint in the human body. There is a lot going on in there, not the least of which is it's capacity for weight bearing. Unfortunately, as I was soon to discover, damage to this joint if significant enough, is often irreparable.
The x-rays showed clearly that I had shattered my calcaneus in my left foot.
The heel bone. And I had cracked the bone in my right heel in two pieces. Vertically, almost dead centre. The left had taken most of the initial impact as a result of my grabbing the eves trough with my right hand on the way down. That small tug shifted my descent just enough to cause the left foot to touch down first. And unfortunately, as far as the current state of the art in orthopedic surgery goes, as it pertains to ankle joints anyway, you do not fully recover from a shattered calcaneus. Ever. Or at least until the technology advances and improves.
The right foot wasn't going to be the problem. The shattering of the left heel had compromised the joining of the foot to the ankle where the lower leg bone, the tibia 'socket' sits atop the heel. The heel had flattened pushing the bone outwards horizontally, impeding any future, proper functioning of the joint. I didn't get any of this at the time. I couldn't have cared any less. I was high as the proverbial kite soaring on the breeze. And who needs feet to soar on the breeze? Angel understood the news before I did. It appears in the early stages at least, this little escaped of mine was going to have long lasting repercussions. To see further technical details
Rather remarkable stuff, morphine. Little did I know that much later in my life, it would become a staple of my daily diet. But for now, the blessed relief was almost instantaneous following injection. And every muscle that had been straining and screaming and tensed beyond capacity for the last four hours, suddenly released and relaxed and I could lay back and close my eyes.
I was sleeping when they came to transfer me out of emergency to admit me to my own room. The x-rays had indicated that the damage was significant enough that I would need to be admitted for a few days. Primarily so the 'Feet Bags' could deflate which would then allow the doctors to decide how they are going to treat. And what was to treat, was two broken feet. One simple. One not so much. Unbeknownst to me at the time, of course, was the knowledge that the ankle is deemed the most complicated joint in the human body. There is a lot going on in there, not the least of which is it's capacity for weight bearing. Unfortunately, as I was soon to discover, damage to this joint if significant enough, is often irreparable.
The x-rays showed clearly that I had shattered my calcaneus in my left foot.
The heel bone. And I had cracked the bone in my right heel in two pieces. Vertically, almost dead centre. The left had taken most of the initial impact as a result of my grabbing the eves trough with my right hand on the way down. That small tug shifted my descent just enough to cause the left foot to touch down first. And unfortunately, as far as the current state of the art in orthopedic surgery goes, as it pertains to ankle joints anyway, you do not fully recover from a shattered calcaneus. Ever. Or at least until the technology advances and improves.
The right foot wasn't going to be the problem. The shattering of the left heel had compromised the joining of the foot to the ankle where the lower leg bone, the tibia 'socket' sits atop the heel. The heel had flattened pushing the bone outwards horizontally, impeding any future, proper functioning of the joint. I didn't get any of this at the time. I couldn't have cared any less. I was high as the proverbial kite soaring on the breeze. And who needs feet to soar on the breeze? Angel understood the news before I did. It appears in the early stages at least, this little escaped of mine was going to have long lasting repercussions. To see further technical details
Rescue Two to Three - Post #7
Rescue Two has returned with a blanket and throws it over my shoulders. Good idea. I am shivering furiously as I am now slipping ever so gracefully into shock. She tells me the ambulance is on the way. I ask about the kids and she informs me that they are with Rescue One, having that dinner I couldn't seem to get organized. She is kind enough not to further her earlier line of questioning regarding my thinking or lack there of, the loss of my mind, etc. Instead she concentrates on hugs and keeping me as warm and calm as possible. All the while I have two feet and a lip that continue to inflate like blown off airbags.
Thanks be to Jesus, I can hear a siren coming on strong. Sure enough, shortly there after, enters Rescue Three, stage left. Two blue suited gentlemen with a roll away bed, wheel to my side in the yard. The first kneels, looks at my bleeding lip and says "How's your head"? I stare him back and say " You're not gonna punch me in the mouth are you"? Followed by me s'plaining what just transpired between Rescue Two and myself when she first approached. They all have some what of an uncertain chuckle while looking questioningly at Angel. "S'ok" I add, "Quite appropriate. I absolutely deserved it". Just what the situation needed. A little comic relief. Rescue Three makes a comment on the bloody lip delivered by Rescue Two and suggests that would likely defer some of my attention from the lower end issue. "That's what I said! Please! Hit me again would you"? Thankfully everyone declined.
The actual packing up and carting out the meat was rather anticlimactic, and by that I mean no drugs administered or permitted. Not until after diagnosis. At the hospital. Hopefully. A neck collar is a fixed (not the last time I'll sport one of those!) then the slab is carefully placed on a body board. Straps are fastened to immobilize. The gurney is lowered and the body board lifted then secured to the roll away.
The stretcher is then raised back to standard operating level for transport and the entire rig, with the cargo aboard, is then wheeled to the street and loaded to the truck, all while a crowd of neighbours, who have gathered to see what all the commotion is about, looks on. Angel hopes in with me and while Medic Two is taking vital signs and pumping me with oxygen to try and slow up some of the hyper ventilating, Medic One is behind the wheel and we are off to the hospital. I didn't even warrant the siren on the way in. I guess that was a good thing 'cause it indicated to me that we were not, in the medics minds at least, dealing with an emergency situation here. Just another regular day in the course of life in suburbia.
Thanks be to Jesus, I can hear a siren coming on strong. Sure enough, shortly there after, enters Rescue Three, stage left. Two blue suited gentlemen with a roll away bed, wheel to my side in the yard. The first kneels, looks at my bleeding lip and says "How's your head"? I stare him back and say " You're not gonna punch me in the mouth are you"? Followed by me s'plaining what just transpired between Rescue Two and myself when she first approached. They all have some what of an uncertain chuckle while looking questioningly at Angel. "S'ok" I add, "Quite appropriate. I absolutely deserved it". Just what the situation needed. A little comic relief. Rescue Three makes a comment on the bloody lip delivered by Rescue Two and suggests that would likely defer some of my attention from the lower end issue. "That's what I said! Please! Hit me again would you"? Thankfully everyone declined.
The actual packing up and carting out the meat was rather anticlimactic, and by that I mean no drugs administered or permitted. Not until after diagnosis. At the hospital. Hopefully. A neck collar is a fixed (not the last time I'll sport one of those!) then the slab is carefully placed on a body board. Straps are fastened to immobilize. The gurney is lowered and the body board lifted then secured to the roll away.
The stretcher is then raised back to standard operating level for transport and the entire rig, with the cargo aboard, is then wheeled to the street and loaded to the truck, all while a crowd of neighbours, who have gathered to see what all the commotion is about, looks on. Angel hopes in with me and while Medic Two is taking vital signs and pumping me with oxygen to try and slow up some of the hyper ventilating, Medic One is behind the wheel and we are off to the hospital. I didn't even warrant the siren on the way in. I guess that was a good thing 'cause it indicated to me that we were not, in the medics minds at least, dealing with an emergency situation here. Just another regular day in the course of life in suburbia.
Saturday, 3 March 2012
The Not-So-Fat Cat - Post #6
So what to do now? I had six kids under my care, tomorrows dinner cooking on the back of the stove, laundry under way, tonight's dinner by the Q and I was lying in a busted heap in the back yard. And now I was really having a time with clear thought. But I somehow knew that I didn't want to have the kids make that emergency phone call. I guess I was trying not to have to tell them just how bad this might be. But who was I kidding. Bubba had it all sized up in seconds. Just the same, I preferred that the kids go and get the next door neighbour, we'll call her Rescue One, whom I knew was home at the time, to take charge of the situation. I sent the pack of 'em off on that mission.
Five very tough minutes ticked by. The feet were beginning to take on the appearance of Smurf boots. The swelling had grotesquely attacked the left. The right only slightly better and all the vivid colour was settling in nicely. The kids return shortly with Rescue One or RO for short. No need to 'splain anything to her. She had seen the leap from her kitchen window. What she didn't see was the landing. Always the tricky part in falls like this. It ain't the fall that's the problem. It's the sudden stop at the end that'll git ya every time. The fence had blocked her vision from viewing the big finish. She didn't know what the Hell I was doing, but it didn't seem to her that I was in need, as she watched it unfold. She did tell me later, for what it was worth, the leap was somewhat cat like in it's execution. I really didn't want to land on my back or worse my head and I was falling backwards from the house. I jumped and turned in the air to face forward with feet right side down and, more importantly, smiley side up. Unquestionably, the ability to make that turn saved my life. Sacrificed two feet but, without a doubt, saved my life.
I explained to RO that the hospital would be a good call. We (I) decided that it was worth the attempt to try and get to the house. So with me propped on RO, I began to try to stand. I got as far as my knees with my good foot, the right, planted firmly on the ground ready to execute. Another bad call. I stood. Got most of my weight on my right and put the left down. Unbearable. That was not going to happen. I was back in a heap within seconds. We decide that RO would take all the kids back to her place, make the 911 call and try to contact Angel at the club to let her know just what kind of interesting stuff I have going on at the house. Good thinking. Finally.
As Rescue One was herding the kids out of the yard and over to her place, a car pulls into our driveway. The Sheriff had arrived back in town. RO approaches and informs Angel that hubby was climbing up to the roof when the ladder collapsed and he was now lying, kinda broken, in the back yard. Imagine her disbelief. But Rescue One was not one to joke about such matters. Angel knew that. They quickly agreed to proceed with the plan for the kids as previously proposed. RO will do the kids, Angel will take over with the numb nut in the back yard. Angel could now be referred to as Rescue Two, although unbeknown to me at the moment, Rescue Two would have been better saddled with the moniker Terminator One.
Always calm and cool in a pressure situation, Rescue Two entered the playing field. Cautiously approaching our hero, she knelt down in front of me and very reassuringly asked how I was doing. I responded with "My feet are badly hurt". She says to look at her. By this time I was hyperventilating with the air-in / air-out thing and I was now trying to focus on staying conscious. I looked up at her and focused on her eyes. Her most beautiful eyes. She said "Hows your head? I replied "Head's fine. Didn't hit my head. My feet were the problem". She said "How's your neck"? I said "Necks ok too. The feet. Just the feet". She held up a hand and said 'How many fingers"? I say "All of them there should be!! Not my head. That's ok!! It was my feet!!!! THE FEET!!!!! I THINK I HAVE BROKEN MY FEET"!!!!!!!!! She calmly and most steadfastly continues, "Hows your back"? I was now getting a wee bit anxious and responded firmly with "Everything but my feet were absolutely ok. I have done nothing but completely mess up my feet". Angel straightened a bit, (I though she was going to stand) but instead she hauled off and punches me right square in the mouth. Not hard and not enough to distract from the pain in my feet mind you, but hard enough to split my lip. Yeowzzer!!! Now I'm bleeding from the top end too.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, climbing up on to the roof when you're supposed to be looking after the kids"??????? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?????? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Jeezuz H, I leave you alone for a few hours and look what you're doing"!!!!!!!!
All very good, reasonable questions. I got nuthin'. 'Cept a fat bleeding lip to go with the fat bleeding feet. She puts her hand under my chin and lifts my head and looks me in the eye. I'm thinking she's lining me up to deliver an upper cut or the old, one-two. Get set. Instead she leans in and wraps her arms around me and gives me the gentlest of hugs. She quietly whispers in my ear, "Ok. I had to get that out. Everything is going to be ok and let's start the process of getting you fixed. I'm calling an ambulance. STAY STILL. DO NOT try and stand again. I'll be back in a flash.
My gal is tough as nails. That's why I love her. That's why I married her. Smart gal. What she's doing with me is anybody's guess.
Five very tough minutes ticked by. The feet were beginning to take on the appearance of Smurf boots. The swelling had grotesquely attacked the left. The right only slightly better and all the vivid colour was settling in nicely. The kids return shortly with Rescue One or RO for short. No need to 'splain anything to her. She had seen the leap from her kitchen window. What she didn't see was the landing. Always the tricky part in falls like this. It ain't the fall that's the problem. It's the sudden stop at the end that'll git ya every time. The fence had blocked her vision from viewing the big finish. She didn't know what the Hell I was doing, but it didn't seem to her that I was in need, as she watched it unfold. She did tell me later, for what it was worth, the leap was somewhat cat like in it's execution. I really didn't want to land on my back or worse my head and I was falling backwards from the house. I jumped and turned in the air to face forward with feet right side down and, more importantly, smiley side up. Unquestionably, the ability to make that turn saved my life. Sacrificed two feet but, without a doubt, saved my life.
I explained to RO that the hospital would be a good call. We (I) decided that it was worth the attempt to try and get to the house. So with me propped on RO, I began to try to stand. I got as far as my knees with my good foot, the right, planted firmly on the ground ready to execute. Another bad call. I stood. Got most of my weight on my right and put the left down. Unbearable. That was not going to happen. I was back in a heap within seconds. We decide that RO would take all the kids back to her place, make the 911 call and try to contact Angel at the club to let her know just what kind of interesting stuff I have going on at the house. Good thinking. Finally.
As Rescue One was herding the kids out of the yard and over to her place, a car pulls into our driveway. The Sheriff had arrived back in town. RO approaches and informs Angel that hubby was climbing up to the roof when the ladder collapsed and he was now lying, kinda broken, in the back yard. Imagine her disbelief. But Rescue One was not one to joke about such matters. Angel knew that. They quickly agreed to proceed with the plan for the kids as previously proposed. RO will do the kids, Angel will take over with the numb nut in the back yard. Angel could now be referred to as Rescue Two, although unbeknown to me at the moment, Rescue Two would have been better saddled with the moniker Terminator One.
Always calm and cool in a pressure situation, Rescue Two entered the playing field. Cautiously approaching our hero, she knelt down in front of me and very reassuringly asked how I was doing. I responded with "My feet are badly hurt". She says to look at her. By this time I was hyperventilating with the air-in / air-out thing and I was now trying to focus on staying conscious. I looked up at her and focused on her eyes. Her most beautiful eyes. She said "Hows your head? I replied "Head's fine. Didn't hit my head. My feet were the problem". She said "How's your neck"? I said "Necks ok too. The feet. Just the feet". She held up a hand and said 'How many fingers"? I say "All of them there should be!! Not my head. That's ok!! It was my feet!!!! THE FEET!!!!! I THINK I HAVE BROKEN MY FEET"!!!!!!!!! She calmly and most steadfastly continues, "Hows your back"? I was now getting a wee bit anxious and responded firmly with "Everything but my feet were absolutely ok. I have done nothing but completely mess up my feet". Angel straightened a bit, (I though she was going to stand) but instead she hauled off and punches me right square in the mouth. Not hard and not enough to distract from the pain in my feet mind you, but hard enough to split my lip. Yeowzzer!!! Now I'm bleeding from the top end too.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, climbing up on to the roof when you're supposed to be looking after the kids"??????? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?????? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Jeezuz H, I leave you alone for a few hours and look what you're doing"!!!!!!!!
All very good, reasonable questions. I got nuthin'. 'Cept a fat bleeding lip to go with the fat bleeding feet. She puts her hand under my chin and lifts my head and looks me in the eye. I'm thinking she's lining me up to deliver an upper cut or the old, one-two. Get set. Instead she leans in and wraps her arms around me and gives me the gentlest of hugs. She quietly whispers in my ear, "Ok. I had to get that out. Everything is going to be ok and let's start the process of getting you fixed. I'm calling an ambulance. STAY STILL. DO NOT try and stand again. I'll be back in a flash.
My gal is tough as nails. That's why I love her. That's why I married her. Smart gal. What she's doing with me is anybody's guess.
The Landing - Post #5
It has been very difficult for me, when looking back on this little escapade, to justify just what the Hell I was thinking. And it really wasn't about the kids at all. The real issue here was the loss of fifty pounds and the feeling of empowerment that came with it. I had been in a gym, six days a week for over a year. And I was feeling somewhat invincible for the first time in my life. I often found myself standing around the house, watching TV or listening to music and I would routinely and effortlessly lift either leg (okay, only one at a time) up over my head, stretch 'em out and back down. Kind of Neo like. From the Matrix. Round house. Slow and methodical. 'Cause I could. That's what katas were all about. And the feeling was fantastic. It had become routine that I would spend most of my time around the house 'without no shoes on' to aid in this behavior, anywhere, anytime.
Yes, heading to the roof when looking after kids is never the right thing to do. But I was in a mindset that anything was possible. The kids were just the catalyst.
I knew immediately that the damage was extremely serious. I had no idea how bad, but the pain was the most excruciating I had ever experienced in my thirty odd years. 'Odd' being the operative word here. I sat in the back yard with my legs flat on the ground in front of me. The kids no where in sight. They were still gathered around the front waiting for my appearance over the roof. The ladder was down. Laying on the ground beside the house, ten feet from me. I was a good fifteen feet from the house, spread over the soft green grass, just off the edge of the hard, concrete landing pad.
I was broken 'real bad'. The pain was isolated in my two feet. Nothing else at the moment. Just the feet. Mind you, the pain was so intense, I really couldn't say if anything else hurt or not. One thing I've learned over the last eighteen months is that pain is a relative thing. If ever you've got a migraine that you just can't manage, smack your thumb with a hammer. You'll forget all about the head ache.
In the first sixty seconds, my ankles were already beginning to show signs of serious internal bleeding and bruising, all the pretty colors of red, purple and blue. Green and yellow took a little longer to arrive. And the swelling had begun that wouldn't stop for three days. Always the eternal optimist I was thinking..... bad sprain. Unfortunately I was pretty sure that wasn't true because I had landed squarely, flat footed, tucked and rolled. As I was trying to fight off waves of nausea, I was sucking in air like an industrial Hoover. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And I was shaking my head vigorously side to side, trying to stay (get) clear headed. Perhaps for the first time today.
I had a vague recollection of a group of kids coming 'round the house, returning to the scene of the crime. They surrounded me. Spiker said " What are you doing sittin' there Dad? C'mon get up. We didn't see you get the beanie. Where's the beanie Dad? C'mon get up. What are you doing Dad"? I was rocking back and forth in silence, a huffin' and a puffin', trying to form words to put together a sentence. Still thinking the best thing to do was to heave my guts out. The rest of the kids look on. Then gentle as a mouse, the youngest of the bunch, the only girl present, MY baby Bubba, quietly strikes her best Marilyn Monroe pose, something she would go on to do a lot of through most of preschool, not because she had ever seen Marilyn or in fact knew anything about such matters, but rather just because instinctively, she had it in her, and she leans in close, through the boys, and quietly whispered "911 Daddy"? That's my girl. I knew I shoulda put her in charge.
Yes, heading to the roof when looking after kids is never the right thing to do. But I was in a mindset that anything was possible. The kids were just the catalyst.
I knew immediately that the damage was extremely serious. I had no idea how bad, but the pain was the most excruciating I had ever experienced in my thirty odd years. 'Odd' being the operative word here. I sat in the back yard with my legs flat on the ground in front of me. The kids no where in sight. They were still gathered around the front waiting for my appearance over the roof. The ladder was down. Laying on the ground beside the house, ten feet from me. I was a good fifteen feet from the house, spread over the soft green grass, just off the edge of the hard, concrete landing pad.
I was broken 'real bad'. The pain was isolated in my two feet. Nothing else at the moment. Just the feet. Mind you, the pain was so intense, I really couldn't say if anything else hurt or not. One thing I've learned over the last eighteen months is that pain is a relative thing. If ever you've got a migraine that you just can't manage, smack your thumb with a hammer. You'll forget all about the head ache.
In the first sixty seconds, my ankles were already beginning to show signs of serious internal bleeding and bruising, all the pretty colors of red, purple and blue. Green and yellow took a little longer to arrive. And the swelling had begun that wouldn't stop for three days. Always the eternal optimist I was thinking..... bad sprain. Unfortunately I was pretty sure that wasn't true because I had landed squarely, flat footed, tucked and rolled. As I was trying to fight off waves of nausea, I was sucking in air like an industrial Hoover. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And I was shaking my head vigorously side to side, trying to stay (get) clear headed. Perhaps for the first time today.
I had a vague recollection of a group of kids coming 'round the house, returning to the scene of the crime. They surrounded me. Spiker said " What are you doing sittin' there Dad? C'mon get up. We didn't see you get the beanie. Where's the beanie Dad? C'mon get up. What are you doing Dad"? I was rocking back and forth in silence, a huffin' and a puffin', trying to form words to put together a sentence. Still thinking the best thing to do was to heave my guts out. The rest of the kids look on. Then gentle as a mouse, the youngest of the bunch, the only girl present, MY baby Bubba, quietly strikes her best Marilyn Monroe pose, something she would go on to do a lot of through most of preschool, not because she had ever seen Marilyn or in fact knew anything about such matters, but rather just because instinctively, she had it in her, and she leans in close, through the boys, and quietly whispered "911 Daddy"? That's my girl. I knew I shoulda put her in charge.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)