I’ve been biding my time, waiting for my trip to the orthopedic surgeon where my fate for the next two months would be decided. Of course biding my time was my only option. I like to pretend that I had other options, but really biding was about it. Hopefully I was able to bide patiently. My husband may have another opinion about it.
I had been very clear and up front about not having any insurance, but unexpectedly everyone at the hospital and the doctor’s office had been extraordinarily nice and helpful. I had known that the ER had to treat me even thought I didn’t have insurance. However I had I had expected to be put at the end of a long line, or had to have my follow up appointment wait for a cancellation. However, my appointment with the surgeon was set up for just a couple days after my ER visit.
I discovered that a couple of short days rest in bed was not enough for my left ankle to recover. Crutching around was still quite out of the question. Standing was just barely possible. My husband tried to make the trip as easy as possible by taking the wheelchair as close to the car as he could, but he ran into one serious problem – stairs. Being taken down stairs in a wheelchair is rather like a trust fall, only I am severely lacking in trust. We did make it to the car without any serious incident. I was just pleased at getting in the car without crawling.
The surgeon’s office was easy to find and fortunately they had their own wheelchairs so I didn’t have to try and crutch my way through the office building. Unfortunately in order to prevent their wheelchairs from rolling off the property they resembled something that looked like it had been modified from a shopping cart. There was no place to put your feet, a wonderfully comfy seat of criss crossing grids, and unless the person pushing held the break while it was moving, the chair stopped abruptly with threats of me spilling out onto the walkway. Yep, this was definitely a beautiful piece of engineering that I wanted to abscond with and take out on the open road. But it did get me up to the surgeon’s office where I found all of the other people who had visited the ER recently, mostly for foot and leg injuries.
After a $50 copay and a short hour of waiting, I made it inside to a room where I finally got to see my right foot for the first time since the ER room. On first glance, I determined that I am part werewolf, and that part doesn’t include the rapid healing. My right leg and foot was still easily twice as large as my left, and now turning all sorts of lovely colors. Apparently, my bruises are from the fall color line. It was quickly determined that I would need surgery and that I would have a splint afterwards. I asked the surgeon about my non-surgical options, which he quickly dismissed. He stated that without surgery my ankle joint would probably not heal correctly, it would most definitely develop arthritis, and it would take a longer time to heal. I thankfully would not need what the techs referred to as a “tomato planter,” a series of metal rings around the leg, attached to your leg bone by pins. While easier to shower with, I found those things infinitely creepier, and a huge step closer to becoming a cyberman.
My leg was expertly rewrapped. My surgery date was set up just a few days away and I was set away with basically the same orders as the ER. They’re rather easy to follow, as I tend to naturally avoid intense jabbing pain.
Now if I could just figure out how to stop my butt from getting numb.
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