Crutchless Wonder

Just this past Friday morning I set out for yet another appointment with Epstein's Doctor. I said to my friend as we got closer to the Dr's office, 
"I wish I was going here to be told something new; something like...'Guess what, KB, you only have to pump half the amount of air into your boot/air-cast from now on'...Or, 'You can start bearing some weight and try walking a little with the boot/crutches'...
"But, I know", I continued, "that it's just going to be a - 'Your incision looks good. No signs of infection. See you in 2 weeks...' - kind of appointment."
She agreed, since she was with me the week before when I had an unscheduled appointment because I did have a slight infection: I was told on that* particular day that I had at least 5 to 6 more weeks - both in the boot, and on the crutches - so I figured I knew what I was going to hear on March 25th.

Note: *That appointment was located at the hospital. Zero paperwork for that one. I was told by Epstein's Doctor over the phone to meet him in "The Fracture Room" at high noon - tomorrow.
Don't even ask about that one...somehow, I managed to get a bracelet and be seen by him - even though nobody was expecting me- and I was told upon my arrival, that he was in surgery.
Nurse: "Who was it that told you to be here today?"  Here we go again...

So, I'm all checked in on Friday and we're waiting for my Doctor to come in. I have taken off my boot - that gamey-smelling, nasty, sweaty, pride-insulting thing - and in comes Doc to take a look at things. After barely a glance at my wound, I am hearing, but not fully comprehending his words:
"Everything looks great. The boot is now optional and you can start physical therapy. Wean yourself off the boot and I want to see you again in 6 weeks."
What? I thought I had....Wait. Did he say "wean"? And is that the same thing as "burn"? Because I don't wean; I'm more of a cold-turkey type...so I take his words to mean, "You never have to wear the boot again." I ask him, "So, I don't have to wear the boot to bed anymore?" He says, "Nope." And I say, "Oh my God, I can't wait to go to sleep tonight!" Thoughts are racing through my mind as to what to do with my crutches, now that I don't need them anymore. He means them as well, right? Should I throw them out? Donate them? Mount them on my wall? People have mounted stranger things. Too bad my crutches aren't the old-school wooden kind, because they would look really good.....in my fireplace!!! 
This time, he does give me official paperwork for the PT folks, and we head over there immediately so I can make my first appointment ASAP.

The Physical Therapist is located in a building that I'm already familiar with. I have another Doctor in this building, which as a result of a few prior health scares from this other Doctor, I have dubbed this place "The Bad News Building", so I'm feeling some bad vibes as I enter the lobby.
"Where's their office?" I ask Bean, my ever-present partner in crime throughout this entire ordeal.
"It's down the end of the hall." She knows, because she's been. She's been going to this guy in fact, for years.
I look "down the hall", which is 14 miles long, and the irony doesn't escape me.
"What do you do, schlep all the way down there, check-in, then check-out, because you're done?" The journey to the front desk from the lobby looks like a single session in and of itself. Suddenly, I feel like I'm in one of Gary Larson's "The Far Side" cartoons. We set out to the office. No Sherpa this time.

I have never been to Physical Therapy. I have no idea what to expect when I exhaustedly, feebly and finally crutch through the entrance. I make my first appointment with the receptionist, and while Bean has some business of her own to take care of, I ask if I can take a look around. I make my way around the corner and I am visually introduced to what I can only describe as Utopian Gym. I feel like Dorothy- after her house has been displaced- when she opens her door to Oz. I see all golden goodness and light. I hear music. I see people working hard - hard at trying to overcome whatever physical setback they have endured. They aren't there to socialize; there is no pretense. The only competition is within themselves. I actually see blood, sweat, and tears. These people are living the "No Pain, No Gain" mantra. I love it; it's like a true "gym-rat" type of gym - the only kind I ever liked when I shopped around for a membership. Only this is now a necessity for me, not a luxury.

I meet my guy, Neil. He already knows my story- again, thanks to Bean- and he asks me when I'll be starting. I tell him, "2 weeks from now, which is also my birthday- so bring cake." He laughs, tells me to hang on a sec. He goes over to a computer and comes back.
"That's a bit far out...How about this coming Wednesday instead?"
I'm all over it. I'm gung-ho. This coming Wednesday, I'm there. Ready to begin this new phase of healing.
Ready to ease on down the road....

JUST DO(ING) IT, part 2

The E-R is 4 weeks post-op and would like to apologize profusely for the big gap between blog posts! Initially- actually getting to my desktop (or the kitchen, or the bathroom...etc.) was nothing less than a small expedition, requiring a mule and a Sherpa. Once I landed at my desk I found that each time I began to write, there was this Vicodin-Voice speaking for me that made no sense whatsoever. Also, since this injury (aka The Heel Ordeal) was still new to me, I had so much anger, frustration and grief that my overall tone was completely  negative- and who the hell wants to listen to Debbie Downer?  So, it is with a much different take on things as I post today, rather than if I had posted 2 or 3 weeks ago.

On the day of my surgery I show up at the hospital with my admissions paperwork. (READ: a yellow post-it note basically saying, "K needs surgery today. Signed, Epstein's DOCTOR"). I was in a defensive stance, ready for the questions pertaining to the legitimacy- the legality- of such a pathetic and unofficial document but when I was asked, "Who is your doctor?" I answered, and got an "Oh, (eyeballs rolling up, accompanied by the half-smirk), okay".
I'm thinking, "Hmm... inside joke or red flag number one?" I let it go.
Eventually, I am in a bed and after a battery of questions, health history, medical allergy disclaimers, a family tree diagram, surveys, waivers, and signing over my firstborn as liability collateral, I meet Mr. IV Guy.
"Hi, I'm so-and-so, and I'm going to get your IV started."
He's nice enough, even cute...not quite what I was expecting but he had some scruff and these huge blue eyes. Suddenly, I'm feeling all modest in my overly provocative, ties-in-the-back, but, not tied johnny. (What?!? It chokes me!) He seems to be all thumbs, nervous; there's an obvious unfamiliarity between him and the other staff, and with the equipment as well. Clearly he's half my age so, is he new? The most-junior man? A rookie. As I'm giving my friend a look, he asks one of the nurses, "Umm...can you tell me where the pole is located on her bed so I can hang up the IV bag?"
Instant Red Flag. 
"Sure, it's on the right hand corner at the top." 
After several unsuccessful attempts to extend it higher, he asks the same Nurse, "How do I extend it?" Second Red Flag. 

 Aside: Normally, in everyday situations I have a 3 Red Flag tolerance. But, when it comes to health and medical stuff, there is a 2-flag limit. (Plus, I had already let a possible red flag go at the admissions desk...)

I begin to closely scrutinize the faces of everyone around me. Especially the ones who are wearing the SARS masks...Which one is he?  And that is when I ask. Out loud. The only logical question for this situation:

"Hey. Am I being punk'd?"

Mr. IV Guy starts cracking up, because again- he's half my age, so he totally gets it. He then explains that he's from Beth Israel Hospital in Boston, doing a rotation in suburban hospitals, and that it's not that he doesn't know what he's doing; he just doesn't know where everything is around here (and how it works, apparently). My IV goes in, and after the back of my hand blows up to the size of a golf ball, we discover a 'kink' in the line, or perhaps it was a blown vein...I don't know but whatever; he straightens it out and he's on his merry way. That's when my friend goes to sit back down - only to find the bandages, the leftover sticky stuff to keep the cannula in my hand straight, and the small syringe - empty of its numbing solution; there they are... on her chair. Whoops. She calls to him down the hall...."Hello....?"

I'm doing okay now, right? Good to go? No.
I mean, sure- my viciously  parched, dehydrated,  Shar Pei skinned self was starting to fluff back up with the IV fluid, but the immediate priority now became pain management. I was told to eat and drink nothing before surgery which I assumed included Motrin, so I was in agony...

But before I go on with that story, I want to get back to the title of this post. Why is this called JUST DO(ING) IT, when, based on what I've written so far sounds like it should be entitled "The Heel Ordeal"?
So, back to the original theme.

When people ask me what happened, I find myself needing to distinguish clearly, the fact that this injury happened while I was playing soccer, and not because I was playing soccer.

Another aside: It's way cooler to be able to say that, by the way, than having to say, "I was running to answer the phone" or, "I was food shopping and realized I sailed right past the Fruity Pebbles so I turned quickly to go back and grab a box..."

I think I answer this way, more for my benefit than theirs. Honestly, this has been more of a "head" injury for me than a leg injury. I need to convince myself that I will get back to DOING everything I did before I got hurt. I find myself in good company at least, of others who have had the same injury: David Beckham, Dan Marino, Gabe Kapler, "The Rock" aka Wayne Johnson, Dominique Wilkins, Vinny Testaverde, even George Clooney AND Brad Pitt. See, I need to know this because it keeps me going. It motivates me; they all healed and went back to doing.
And that's where I'm at. Everyday. Just doing it...a little, tiny bit more each day.

My next post will address Things that one should, and shouldn't do while on crutches...

Final Aside: Referring back to the pain I was having prior to my surgery -
Oh yeah. They gave me something. My last thought as I'm wheeled to the O.R. ?
"Oh Maaaan! I hope my ties-in-the-back, but, not tied johnny does not fall open when they flip me onto my stomach for this operation...."
Then, BANG. Lights out. I never even saw the entrance to the OR....