Day Seven

It's been a week since the fated trip to Fahnestock Winter Park.  Six days till surgery. I haven't been in pain up til now. This morning, when I get up on crutches, intense pain shot down my shin and came to rest in a throbbing burning ball in my ankle, as though someone was pouring lava down my leg. It roiled and scalded and scooped a hole in my bones. 

Modern Western medicine has the antidote, though: narcotics. Everyone I talk to asks if I am in pain and then they say, "Did they give you the good drugs, though?" Yeah, they did. But I have to say, Vicodin and Percocet aren't really my definition of "good." Painkillers are weird, because they don't actually fully take away the pain, but they can sort of veil it so that it's not such a big deal anymore. Painkillers make your brain not notice the pain. 

I'm listening to Dead Prez right now (as Ajay Ram says, "white people love Dead Prez,") and that last line about painkillers went right along with the beat of "Radio Freq." Or maybe I'm just high on drugs. 

I don't handle pain very well. Humans in general fear pain, I think. Some handle it better than others. An injury like this makes me scoff at Hollywood. We've all seen those action sequences where the hero falls and lands wrong and gets up and continues to limp along whilst shooting bad guys. Then in the next scene, the limp is gone, but there's a bullet wound in his shoulder, about which he seems equally blase. Me, I would just faint after the fall. And then I'd lie there, passing in and out of consciousness, and the bad guys would come and shoot me and the movie would be over. 

In my head, there is this ongoing debate about anaesthesia, which essentially boils down to: general, or sedation and epidural? When getting one's body cut, hammered, and scraped, is it better to be dead or alive?

Gee I'm sunshiny.

My sister Kendall is here. She did yoga on the rug next to The Couch, and then persuaded me to do some situps. My leg didn't hurt at all-- high on drugs. Then she gave me a massage. I highly recommend having a good sister. 

Day Five

Taking baths is my new greatest pleasure, besides sleeping. Before the break, my two chief pleasures were eating, and another thing that isn't appropriate for a public forum. Now my appetites are much reduced. 

Bathing is, at least, something to break up the monotony of a day on the couch. The cats like it too. Mouse sits on the toilet seat and peers at me as though he can't quite understand what I'm doing lying down in a tub full of warm water. Then he taps his paw against the shampoo bottle till it falls into the tub and he jumps away from the splash, pleased with himself. Kitty Girl is more sceptical of the whole operation and watches guardedly from the bathroom doorway. She is not going anywhere near you insane creatures who like to submerge yourselves in water. 

I've used up all the bath salts that were lingering around the bathroom shelves for months or even years, and the bath oil that I purchased a small bottle of three years ago. Who takes baths, after all? They are, for some reason, a luxury. But not being able to shower standing up has turned them into a necessity. And I welcome the excuse. 

I am feeling not as dark as yesterday. My father, who fancies himself a follower of natural medicine, prescribed to me three remedies: homeopathic arnica, to bring down the swelling and bruising, fish oil (6000 mg/day) to keep from clotting and to lessing inflammation, and vitamin D 3, for what he calls "the sads." It all seems to be working. I can wiggle my toes and there is extra room inside the cast now, instead of being all filled up with swollen foot meat. However, even though I'm feeling better, it's not as hopeful as it might be, because surgery will put me back to square one as far as recovery/healing goes. So the important thing in the meantime is not to succumb to the dark forces of lethargy, ennui, and depression. 

This whole situation is creating some strain on my marriage. My poor husband now has to take care of 100% of the household tasks, as well as the little personal things I can't do for myself, like carry anything from room to room, get up to switch the stereo to CD mode, or put clothing into drawers or in closets. It's twice as frustrating for me, because contrary to popular belief, I don't LIKE being waited on hand and foot. I have been accused of being a princess before but this is proof that really I'm just a peasant with noble and/or artisanal aspirations. A true princess would accept the service as her due. Me, I am just restless and annoyed. I hate asking for things. 

However, Tom and I came up with a game to help remedy this situation. He stands in the room and I tell him exactly what to do, in what order. Put this bag into the bottom drawer and then close the drawer. When you're done with that, take this mug, that wine glass, and this piece of orange peel into the kitchen. Wash the mug and glass and throw away the orange peel and then come back in here. Get me the clipboard, it's on my desk under the pile of papers and then clip this paper onto it. Go into the closet, get out my jacket, and in the jacket pocket you will find another piece of paper...

And so on. Tom likes it because he doesn't have to think or make decisions, and I like it because I can clean the room without getting up from the couch. 

9 more days till surgery. 

Day 4 Despair

I didn't have surgery yesterday. My ankle is too swollen. If they do surgery now, the skin may not heal correctly, and then, as Dr. Goldman said, a manageable problem could turn into a very difficult situation. 

So he scheduled my surgery for NEXT FRIDAY, ten days from now. Oh it sucks. It sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks. 

10 days of sitting on my ass. 10 days of not healing. 10 days till they cut into me and then another month to heal from the surgery. 

Morbid fears:

Gangrene

Not being able to walk again ever

Amputation. Prosthesis.

Surgery hurts bad.

Vicodin addiction.

Constipation.

Marriage is ruined by stress.

This room is stifling. 

This room is freezing. 

Need:

ice

clipboard

garbage receptacle

sage smudge stick

the ability to write

student loan paperwork

teething ring. 

Wonder:

Is my writing practice broken?

How do I keep from going insane?

-1. Don't smoke crack. 

-2. Talk to husband

-3. ?

And I won't walk unassisted for three whole months.

I've got to get out of this room. 

Day 2

Spiral fracture. Spiral fracture. Spiral fracture. 

Rather poetic, really.  Spiral-- I like spirals. The galaxy moves in a spiral, through time. Spirals are carved into ancient Irish boulders that line the path to the Newgrange tomb. Spirals are the best pasta shape. To get the longest piece of cord from rawhide, you cut in a spiral. 

Fracture, however....fractious fraction frak freak fracture refract...none of these lead to anything likeable. Except refraction, which leads to rainbows. And fraction, which leads both to math class, and to fairness. Frak leads to Battlestar Galactica, which I detest and yet am obligated to watch because Tom loves it. Fractious (2 word parts, "frac" and "tious," say "frac," say "shuss." Synonyms: bad tempered, unruly, irritated).

I spun my ankle over my ski. Twisted the bones so hard they broke. Twisted them-- spiral-- so hard they broke-- fracture. 

So tomorrow at 8:15 am I am supposed to have surgery. Tom and I spent the day on the phone with various doctors' offices, trying to get the right guy for the job, make sure he's covered by our health plan, etc. The right guy's name is Ariel Goldman, and he's an orthopedic surgeon. He may or may not be at the clinic where I'm signed up for surgery tomorrow. We shall see. 

Day 1

Hello, it's Ms. Webster. You may have noticed I'm not at school. This is because I injured myself-- I fractured my left ankle while skiing over the weekend.  This blog is for me to keep in touch with you and for you to keep in touch with me. You can comment on any blog to let me know how and what you're doing. Remember, I am at home on my couch with a gigantic cast on, bored out of my mind. So please, leave comments. 

So, here's what happened.

1) I am a sucky skier.

2) The hill was icy.

3) I lost my balance and fell.

4) Ouch, my left ankle hurt. Bad.

5) I fainted.

6) The ambulance took me to the hospital.

7) They took x-rays.

8) My ankle was fractured in 3 places.

9) They put a cast on it.

10) I have to have surgery.

I didn't even get to ski! This happened on the hill down from the lodge to the trail! I felt really stupid, like I'd ruined everyone's day. 

Tom and I spent most of yesterday in the Putnam Hospital. My leg hurt pretty bad, but if I didn't move it, the pain was less. I spent a while thinking, oh, this is just a sprain. They'll put a splint on it, and I'll be out of here. 

We waited a while, and then an orderly wheeled my gurney to the radiology lab, where they take x-rays. She took about three bajillion x-rays, which hurt because I had to keep moving my ankle into different positions. Then she wheeled me back to the little room where they had stashed me earlier. I cried a little and played Fuzzle on my phone. 

A male nurse came in and said, "Bad news, you fractured your ankle in three places. You will probably need surgery. Someone will come in and put you on an IV with some pain medication." 

He left, and I started crying.  My ankle hurt really bad now; knowing it was broken somehow made it worse. And the idea of surgery was scary. I've never had surgery before. I've never even broken anything before. And now here I was, crying into my ski gloves in a hospital, my ankle screwed up beyond recognition. It was swollen and disfigured. My toenails looked like little red-hots embedded into 5 pale sausages. 

Another nurse came in and started hooking me up to an IV. I have this problem where any time I get blood drawn, have to get a shot, hurt myself, or cut myself, I faint. This was no exception. I started blacking out, which was bad because I really had to pee, plus my ankle killed and the needle in my arm was taking forever, and I couldn't breathe real well. Tom, who has seem me do this before-- on our honeymoon, for instance, when I got food poisoning and fainted in the street-- explained the problem to the nurse, so she wheeled me into another room, where they hooked me up to one of those machines that beeps a lot and monitors your breathing and heart rate. Apparently I have very low blood pressure. 

We waited another kajillion hours, and then a doctor came in. He put my leg in a cast, which was maybe the most painful experience of the entire day, because he had to pull the bones back into place. I practiced deep breathing and tried not to pass out. He was nice about it.

After that, things got better. My ankle felt better, because it was stabilized. Plus, the pain meds helped. Go figure. 

We drove home to New York City. I parked my butt on the couch. We watched The Wire. I slept pretty well. 

The doctor said it would take about 6 weeks to heal. I can't imagine what it will be like having to lie here for 6 weeks; I guess I'll find out. My boxing instructor is pissed off.