So, I have the ankles of an osteoporotic matron from the Victorian era. After a fall on ice that I'd rather not talk about, I sustained a complete fracture of my right distal fibula -- the skinnier bone that makes up your ankle joint. The fracture was also displaced, meaning the two edges of the break weren't perfectly opposed, so my orthopedist recommended an ORIF (open reduction, internal fixation) that plates the bone together to stabilize the joint and decrease my risk of arthritis later on. In short, I am now a bionic woman who will have a part-titanium ankle for life**. Ti is stronger than Ca, right? I promise, in between ankle injuries, I carve out time to be a medical student.
**Yep, for life. No, it typically doesn't/hasn't really set off airport detectors. And, yes, it's MRI safe...because electron pairs?
This was the first time an injury was (and still is) truly disruptive to my life. I was on the ob/gyn rotation when I broke my ankle and quickly came to the sinking conclusion that I wouldn't be able to continue (ugh, that clumsy med student whose face is contorted in pain just fell into the sterile field...again). I would have to make up the time somehow. What's more, I couldn't finish out classes with my improv team in time for our first performance.
I did not take this realization well.
I cried, you guys. a lot. Couldn't stop. Big heaving sobs as soon as the poor unsuspecting guy who came with the X-ray results told me I would need surgery. Tears just streaming down my face as the podiatry resident who was splinting my leg tried to console me. Up to that point, I truly believed I only had a sprain, frantically reciting the Ottawa criteria, reassuring myself that yes I could bear some weight on it....all while I crawled around the house on my hands and knees. I kinda knew it was broken but really didn't want to admit it. Denial is a powerful opiate, even (maybe especially) for people in the medical biz.
I was feeling immensely sorry for myself and ugly-cried for two straight days on the couch, alternately pitying and being inordinately angry with myself. You see, my parents had finally managed to finagle overlapping vacation time over Christmas, so the family was all set to go to the Bahamas. Even I was excited to go around quoting DFW's cruise piece and filming a version of this with my sisters. Instead, this. The whole thing was cancelled. Because of me.
I was very upset, crowning the whole thing as "the turd cherry on my poop sundae of a year". It took a long time before I could accept the injury for what it was. An injury, that's it. An accident, a something that happened.
I had had an interesting conversation with two improv friends (around the time the whole thing happened) about their generally philosophy of "ain't nothin anybody's fault". I surrendered myself to that. There are far far more terrible things in life. I wasn't necessarily minimizing my experience but accepting it just for what it was...and what it was not. I don't know, that really helped me work through the pain, both physical and mental. I was lucky in a number of ways, you see:
I hadn't broken my tibia, which is actually the major weight-bearing bone of the joint. In fact, the tiny avulsion fracture of the tibia has been present since 2011. A tibia break would have been much more disabling
I hadn't hit my head. Seriously thank god.
this surgery largely fixed the issue
my insurance covered my expenses, including physical therapy
school was flexible and accommodating
experienced the patient side of things (I'll write a post about that later)
I am young and otherwise generally healthy. I heal quickly. And I'm doing really great.
my pain wasn't incapacitating
The last bullet point deserves elaboration. If you're lactose intolerant, take your fucking Lactaid right now because shit's about to get real cheesy.
to my dearest Liz, Tiff, and Urooj who are always always there and traveled miles and miles for a beer taster in Friendship Mediocre Suburbs. I don't know if you know how much you all mean to me. seriously.
to Kim, who drove me and Ma home from the airport, bags and crutches and all, and only minimally laughed at the rolling knee walker. No thanks whatsoever to the rolling knee walker, fuck that thing.
to Miriam. who drove me to the airport. who called and texted even when I was being a brat. who regularly checked up on me. who always always encourages and supports and boosts me up. who accepts me at my worst and most negative, which has been quite often over the last year. who drives me to the grocery store and other places and listens to my grossest stories and is just an all-around fucking peachy best friend. I don't know if you know how much you mean to me. seriously.
and, finally, my family. God, I'm getting teary just fucking writing it. I've had some problems with my family in the past and we still have major disagreements. but goddammit they really do have my back and I have never felt more taken care of in my life. this is not something everyone has, and I am really fucking lucky to have them.
Oh and shout out Rose from the Animal Hospital who saw me struggle-walking in the snow and offered me a ride to the Skinker stop (which I accepted. because I'm in the Midwest, and she looked safe and friendly. don't tell mom.)
So, yes. I managed to return to regular programming after being out of commission for about a month, and hobbling around the hospital like something out of RoboCop hasn't been so bad. I'm actually hoping to get the walking boot off this Thursday, wish me luck. Will write another entry and post some pictures soonish.