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.
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