The gift that keeps on giving (not herpes)
I went in on Wednesday to get my fiberglass cast on since I had been hobbling around with a splint artfully made in the ER with and ace bandage and some sort of strange medical material with which I’m not familiar.
I walk in the orthapedic office after having made peace with the fact that I was going to have my leg encased in a colorful cacoon for a little over a month. I had made peace with the fact that my NYC trip to Governor’s Ball was going to be more complicated and uncomfortable than I had originally forseen. I had made peace with the fact that my blissful trip to Bonnaroo was going to be a little less blissful with a little less intoxication than I had planned.
Gritting my teeth into what I wanted to look like smile but probably looked more like scowl, I crutched my way into the doctors office. My doctor was fairly young and he was very friendly, so my scowl loosened into more of a true smile within a few minutes, but that didn’t last long.
When I was in the ER, the physician’s assistant told me I was going to have to be in the cast, and if my foot were to not heal properly or something were to shift, surgery may be needed. I was aware of this so when my orthapedic doctor asked me if I was informed that surgery was used to treat this sort of injury and I said yes.
-My injury is called a Lisfranc injury. It’s named after a French dude and it’s on wikipedia if you’re curious but I don’t want to bog you down with more facts than are completely crucial to my story.-
I told him I was aware that if my condition worsened, surgery may be neccessary. There was a long silence. I stared at him. He stared at me. He looked at my mom. He looked back at me. My mom stared at me. Then looked at him and broke the silence that seemed to last longer than any silence should. ”So I’m guessing by the silence, she’s going to need the surgery.”
-I’m going to take a moment to toot my own horn. I am a very tough girl. I have walked on my foot broken both times without being aware of the severity of my injury because of my threshold of pain. I like to think I am very mentally and phsyically tough for my age and stature. When I was told I had to have surgery, I was okay. When I was told I was going to be on crutches for THREE MONTHS, I broke down and cried. I live alone without any roommates in a studio on the third floor, so you can imagine the struggle. #thestruggleisreal-
Well, to end this already lengthy rant, I went in upset about a cast and left with the news that my foot was going to have to have some hardware surgically removed. YAY! Sadly my NYC trip had to be cancelled but my Bonnaroo trip is still to be determined (the outlook is grim, but hey! positive vibes.)
If you actaully read this, thanks, you’re an earth angel and there are likely many more melodramatic medical anticdotes to come.
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