I passsssed...

Yesterday, I met with my surgeon for a follow up.  Folks, it was NOT pretty.  I did get to see what had been pestering me for the last 4 days and yes, Jeff, I really did have blisters.  Good thing I got to do some Pioneer Day bonding with my fearless forebearers by sharing in some really crazy blisters.  I will not go into detail, but I am sure they are quite unlike the type that a new pair of shoes has given you in the past.  My incision looks "really straight," "great," and "perfect:" according to all the men in the room.  I will excuse those three, but my yellowish green skinny atrophy leg with a giant purplish gash running up the side didn't look anything like those words-- except straight-ish.  Once they opened the cast and laid my vulnerable weakling leg open to the outside world, they said that I could hop back on my crutches and go down the hall for an x-ray.  Excuse me please?  I should back up and say that my crutches skill are about nil thanks to my handy walker.  We had brought the crutches as a more mobile way to get from the front door of the office to the reception desk.... not as a mechanism for further injury.  Don't worry, I didn't embarrass myself at this time.  Next the surgeon looked at the films, maybe to see the perfection of plate and screw placement to appease his guilt over the crazy bruising and the blisters.  He then described my options for footwear for the next 6 weeks.  The boot, light and protective, utilitarian-- the army boot of post-op or the nimble lace up ankle brace which is much lighter weight and consists of breathable (thin) fabric that is laced like a converse all-star without sole or toe.  As an added benefit the lace-up has additional arch support of elastic and velcro.  Ack.  really?  Of course I chose the boot-- not the dr.'s choice, so he threw in three weeks of boot and three weeks brace.  He apparently doesn't get that my three children have little to no idea that there is anything wrong with me, let alone a broken leg of all things.  They are merely convinced that I am lazy and now own a super fun array of carts and stilts that only I get to play with.  The boot screams this extremity is extremely broken, please do NOT invade my new larger personal space bubble.  The ankle brace says, "Hey I am an athlete with a minor injury, but the coach says I'll be in a couple weeks."  The Dr. did not give in...
Next he talked physical therapy.  That was fast-- I still have stitches, you know.  He proceeded to put my right foot in and my right foot out and shake it all about.  By the time he was done doing the range of motion hokey-pokey, I was white as a ghost and going for the full blackout routine.  Backpeddle by the Dr. He brought me some M&Ms for my "blood sugar."  I was too busy with my deep breathing to tell him about the Strawberry Shortcake I had for lunch 30 minutes ago.  After that, I guess all my instruction was over.  I was asking him questions as he backed out of the door.
After all of that I didn't pass out, but didn't feel ready to brave the crutches.  Jeff went to get my meds and appointments worked out while I waited.  We had decided to use a wheelchair to get me safely to the car because I was still a bit wobbly.  Maybe I did have low blood sugar.  One M&M would make everything better it had a peanut for protein right?  One was all I needed to get my body into action.  I called down the hall to Jeff, I was either going to pass out or puke right now.  (Sorry, I had to use the nasty puke word because really the lure of the alliteration was too strong for any self-respecting English major).  Jeff called down to a nurse and she tossed him a garbage can as he ran towards my room where I proceeded to purge myself of both the candy and cake in a most violent fashion.  This was not my most endearing moment-- I could tell from Jeff's face, but I really did feel MUCH better.  I offered to jump on my crutches and make a run for it, but Jeff's nerves had HAD it with my antics-- he got the wheelchair.

A couple miles down the road he asking if that was embarrassing.  Um, nope.  Hopefully they forget me over the next 6 weeks.  I'll be sure to tip off the physical therapist to my special tricks.  Maybe I will develop some stamina in training so my next visit will restricted to dry humor and inconspicuous grimaces.