Elmo, The Leg, and I are now officially on Recovery Road, located between Bugout Boulevard and Anxious Avenue, a block or two away from Stircrazy Street.
I’m still waiting to feel relieved, celebratory, about the fact that bone is finally growing in The Leg and amputation becomes less and less likely with every good report. Yet what I’m mostly feeling is frustrated. I guess now that the actual end is in sight, it’s
Somebody tell me why I could sit happily for months in a bloody wheelchair, watching the world go by without me, but now that I finally see a green light at the end of the tunnel, I’m going nuts?
On Friday night, Sept. 16, 2016, I fractured my left femur just above Elmo, my replacement knee. I lived in a wheelchair, facing hip-high amputation of my left leg, for about two years while I fought health care bureaucracy, cost-conscious HMOs, and myself to figure out a way to walk again. (Spoiler alert: Elmo won!)
I documented my adventures in remobilization in this blog. They’re awfully self-indulgent, occasionally icky, and probably only of interest to me, but on the off-chance that they help someone else with a catastrophic injury, I’m keeping them together here. If you don’t want to read them, that’s OK; I still love you. If you do, you might want to start from the beginning, on the archive page that lists all posts.
Really. My patience is running thin, and my mind is crowded with this kind of nonsense: “It’s less than five steps from my fabulous new window seat to the bed. Why can’t I just WALK THERE!?!?!”
An impatient Cynthia is hardly unusual–my colleagues at work have put up with that for centuries.
Cynthia temper tantrums? Those used to be rare beasts…until January 10, the day they told me the bone was growing and my good ol’ amygdala joined the party.
The resident carpenter has started to take meals in his room, in case something gets thrown at him.
There are dents in the drywall. I kid you not.
So, in the interests of not ending up in a state mental institution, I’m reminding myself to be just a tad more patient, remember that persistence pays off in the end, and to think of all the reasons I should relax and be glad this is FINALLY working:
- I love love LOVE my new physical therapist, Brenda, and the warm saltwater pool workouts are heavenly.
- That bloody bone (literally) really is growing, and every time I stand on The Leg, I’m stimulating it to grow even more.
- More pain means better healing. Every wince is a step forward!
- The resident carpenter has introduced me to both marijuana and actual inhaling, something I’ve always had a problem with, and lemme tell ya, weed works better than Dilaudid.
- I can tolerate a leg-down position, so–yay!–I am back in the studio working clay. My first portrait, of the resident carpenter (probably getting ready to duck), shows how rusty I’ve gotten.
- I don’t have to ditch Tyrone Spiffy the Wheelchair right away, but more and more the grannywalker is a viable mode of transportation.
- Women on walkers are actually kinda sexy, right?
Yeah. Calm down and enjoy the ride. It’s gonna be maybe six months before I graduate to a cane, and then all hell breaks loose.
In the meantime, anybody got something I can throw?