Early Days of Being Bionic

I’ve just had surgery on my ankle, have you heard?  I tell EVERYBODY so if this is news to you, it’s through no fault of mine.  Everyone in my circle will testify that I’m operating like a Public Service Announcement in my efforts to keep as many people interested as possible.     

The surgery went great (I’m probably considered bionic now!!) and I’m at home wearing a fracture boot that hugs my leg like a pre-school kid to the leg of his mom as soon as he realizes what a pre-school is used for.  I’ll have another few weeks to go before I start addressing the prospect of putting weight on it to learn how to walk without mobility aids and without staring at it constantly as I do so, but for now, I slowly wander around the apartment on crutches.  It’s a small apartment and it’s made even smaller by my wild and unpredictable crutching prowess.    

I am over the moon about having had the surgery as I was on the waiting list for well over a year and a half.  That time allowed me to not only strengthen my body in advance but to also lay in at least 3 of everything that my husband (now long-suffering) and I would need to eat, utilize, or preen with during this time.  It was an EXHAUSTING bit of hunting and gathering, but that’s all behind me now and my current job is to languish in my bed or on the couch, leg elevated, while ordering still another cup of tea or demanding that SOMEONE for the love of Pete open that box of chocolates and bring them to me before I all but PERISH!!!  

And mewling softly for effect.  

In no way is this the worst time of my life.  But, I wouldn’t suggest it as a lifestyle either.    

There have been a considerable number of ingenious recovery hacks that I’ve either stumbled upon (no pun intended, I assure you) or that were shared with me by generous souls who have already gone through similar operations, and those hacks have really made this time a lot smoother.  Still, there are a number of situations in which I am most definitely….floundering.   

Basic bathing is in that category.  Showering while wearing a fracture boot wrapped in a clear plastic jumbo leaf bag swaddled in green painters’ tape is less like a spa treatment and more like planning a large-scale tactical assault.  The padded boot covers the incisions that I have been instructed to keep dry at all costs, so I perch awkwardly on my bath bench with that leg bagged and stuck out on the side of the tub and tucked around a shower curtain that is valiantly trying to contain the water that is shooting at high pressure out of the shower wand and around all four walls of the bathroom.  A jolt of pain stabbing at my ankle, like a quick but menacing bite from a Pomeranian with the attitude of a mobster, would be the result of my leg slipping off the side of the tub, so danger hangs heavy in the air, and I find that I am overly cautious as I try to get all parts of me lathered up and hosed down.    

I’ve got a little fold-up stool in the bathroom to sit on while I’m fussing post-shower in front of the mirror or while I’m brushing my teeth, and I am reverted to my 4-year-old self as I struggle to reach my hands over the now shoulder-high edge of the vanity to rinse them in the sink or, worse, try to spit out a mouthful of toothpaste without landing it squarely in the overflow hole in the sink.  I am a terrible spitter, always have been, and this practice twice a day has yet to refine my skill.  

Another simple thing that I can’t do on my own is carry my own plate.  My husband delivers my breakfast and lunch to me in my bed, from where I conduct most of my day and shout orders.  (I move to the living room couch for supper to build in some elegance!)  Toast eaten or eggs inhaled or various crudites munched, I then search for someplace to put my plate.  My side of our bedroom looks like it belongs to a hoarder.  There is every manner of entertainment stacked up on the dresser, floor, bedside table, and under the bed for easy access.  The truth is that I don’t need much entertaining at this point so it all just seems to be sullenly hanging around waiting for some sign of acknowledgement.  My night table is as treacherous as a Jenga game – two tall drinking cups, various pairs of densely finger-smudged eyewear, my flip phone (don’t start with me), the hand-held extension for the landline (I mean it), the clock radio, a beautiful but now viewed as menacingly precarious reading lamp, several cords for plugging in electronic devices (some that I’m not even sure I own), and a slew of pill containers, pens, and partially written notes.  And now, where to balance an empty but dirty plate?  Maybe I’ll just hold it until my husband flies by as he tries to juggle his full-time work, all of the house duties, and me, simultaneously.    

If I’ve made a trip to the bathroom or living room and am tha-thumping my way back into my lair, I often take the opportunity to swing by the kitchen and will swipe a piece of fruit or a handful of cherry tomatoes that may seem glad to see me.  The problem of how to get them into the bedroom without using my hands (firmly clutching each crutch) presents itself.  I never see this problem coming!  I only recognize it when I’ve got a fistful of grapes or am gripping an apple.  I mean, I’ve got all this in my hand already so to put it back while I go retrieve my crossbody bag that I usually have slung across me for this very reason, seems like a lot of extra work and suggests that I’ve totally given up on my sense of adventure.  So, for the next several minutes, I incrementally move whatever item(s) I’m claiming, along the kitchen counter as I crutch along beside until I hit the yawning chasm of open hallway between the edge of the oven and the door of the bedroom.  Some stuff makes it, and some stuff lies scattered on the floor like evidence at a crime scene until my husband makes another round and cleans it up without so much as a raised eyebrow, while I chatter away about something else entirely in order to deflect.      

I am completely aware of how lucky I have been throughout this process of healing this far, so is it petty to complain that my hair has decided to part like the Red Sea down the back of my head after laying on my back for these many weeks?  I may need a hair piece!  Mind you, once I get back on my feet, I’ll probably end up rushing along so fast that my hair will be forced to fly straight out behind me because of the wind speed! And I’d imagine that will be most of the time – after all, what’s the point of becoming bionic if you don’t bother using it!