FRUITY!

A big "Thank You" to Erin and the rest of my Dudley family who sent me this Edible Arrangement today. It was a rough morning, but the chocolate covered strawberries do help!

Eating a flower-shaped pineapple in my hot wheels.

Foot, Football and Friday

A rough Friday.

When I woke up this morning I was in so much pain that I began to think maybe something wasn't going as planned underneath my cast. The swelling became so intense that any time I put my foot to the ground, it instantly turned a dark shade of blue.

I called the surgeon, who said I should come in to have it checked out...

And after almost FOUR hours in the waiting room, I found out that the swelling had overcome the capacity of the cast.

And I think Dr. Douoguhi sees people in pain so much that he’s become immune to it.

A typical Washington doctor – he walks in and gives me a nice, firm handshake in his sports coat, khaki pants and loafers, sets his Blackberry on the table and speaks to me in terms that remind me that he knows more than me ...and then he starts ripping apart my cast to expose the bandages and stitches.

Though the sight under the cast made me slightly nauseous, it did help relieve some of the pressure and pain.

But I must say, the only concern or care I got was in the waiting room… Packed with no extra chairs to put my foot on, I had to hold it in my arms like a small child.

Meanwhile the woman to my right was yapping on her phone about her dogs, and I guess the look on my face was anything but delightful.

The guy sitting to my left noticed and asked, “Shattered ankle? I know how you’re feeling. I’ve been there.” And he picked up the magazine table, stacked the magazines up and put my foot on top. We chatted about our current and previous injuries and turns out he “plays professional football.” I didn’t pry, but he did refer me to his physical therapist, so maybe I’ll figure out who he is in the near future.

[Update: I later learned that my doctor is the orthopedist for the Baltimore Ravens. So, if you know of a potential lineman on the team with dreads and a torn peck, he is the "him."]

Chuck T in my Hot Wheels

The view from my wheelchair.

Post-Op

(Not even having a beer with all the Vicodin did anything to help/hinder my pain!)

I wrote the following on my laptop journal the day after my surgery. Almost a week later, I decided to go back and read what I had written. The words bring memories of pain to my unforgetting mind, and thought I probably won't re-read this after I post it...

Here are those [to me, agonizing] words...

"For the past week I have pushed myself to the most physical and mental extremes. Not by choice, but by what the doctor said was a necessity. But when is a necessity unnecessary?

Yesterday, overflowing into today, and even down to this very second as my fingers hit each key on the keyboard, I am in the worst pain I have ever known.

I once heard that we don’t remember our own births because it is so painful that “mother nature” blocks that moment from our memories.

That may or may not be true, but this feeling -- this pain -- that I’m feeling right now is so intense that I know I will never forget it.

For the past 24 hours it feels like my foot has been trapped inside of a bear claw, spring-loaded trap. It feels like the metal is pressing, squeezing, clamping down onto my ankle with no sign of relief in sight.

[[Where is the hunter to put me out of my misery!?]]

I try to sleep, but the pain wakes me up. I try to watch TV, but the pain redirects my attention. Even while typing this, I am squirming. My neck muscles are strained. My back aches. I feel stuck. Stuck in the pain. Stuck in this bed. And stuck… in the worst possible situation I’ve ever found myself to be in.

I can’t imagine the thought of having to live like this. I haven’t ventured outside since Tuesday, the day before my surgery, because walking on crutches is almost unmanageable in this city, and the minutes-away commute will easily turn into hours.

I have a new appreciation for those who are disabled in this city. A new interest in pain. why, Why, WHY is it here? What can I do to make it go away? What did I do to make this so intense?

WHY are the pain killers not killing the pain and the pressure?

The Pressure...

The pressure in my ankle is trickling down into my kneecap.

Unbearable. Unimaginable. Unanticipated.

THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT I HAVE EVER KNOWN!"

"Lifesaver Lizz"

I don’t know how the “LIFSAVR” license-plated car got onto my camera phone, but I think that it was during the duration that Lizz had hold of my possessions.

After about 30 minutes of “coming to” in the recovery room, Lizz arrived to sit with me and, eventually, she was able to take me back to my house. It was also during this [drugged up] period of time that I do believe I started calling her ‘Lifesaver Lizz.’

…Maybe it was because I was laying too closely to the paddles and EKG machine, but most likely it was because not only did she take the day off work to come pick me up from the hospital, but she also sat with me for a few good hours, while I tried to “sober up” from the anesthesia in order to cope with the pain.

And although the hours and evening after the surgery all seem a little bit (or extremely) hazy in my mind, I won’t forget that she was there for me and was the first familiar face I found on the road to recovery.

Thank you, Lizz!

What to expect when you're expecting... surgery

(Post-Op. Photo Credit: 'Lifesaver Lizz.')

The morning arrived…

…Although I’m not sure I’d call it “morning” because it was still dark out, and Peter and I were both too tired to carry on a conversation.

As I crutched into the waiting room, my stomach was uneasy. I felt antsy, anxious, nervous and somewhat scared as I waited among a dozen other pre-op patients to hear my last name. When it was finally called, we followed the surgeon's coordinator down a long, empty hall towards the curtained rooms, and right before the door, the surgery attendant turned around to me and so nonchalantly said, “Okay, say your goodbyes and follow me.”

I don’t know if it was the careless way he said it, the word “goodbye,” the thought of the anesthesia risks the hospital has disclaimed the previous day, my nerves, the fear of being alone -- probably a compilation of it all -- but I was in tears as I said goodbye to Peter and turned to follow the man into the pre-op room.

Once inside my designated, curtained area, donned in backless gown and blue hair net, on came the needles, IV, blood drawling, blood pressure arm band, heart monitor, cords taped all over my chest and stomach… So much for trying to calm my nerves.
And after almost three hours of lying there, repeatedly answering questions (like: What ankle is it? Do you have a history of family health problems? Did you eat anything this morning? Do you smoke? Do you drink? Etc, etc, ad nauseum)… it was finally time for the surgery.

A nurse came and wheeled me into a cold, open operating room complete with flat screen TVs on the walls and enough lamps to catch some UV rays, and I was told to scoot from my bed to the thinly cushioned table.

The last things I remember from that room are: a nurse putting a mask over my mouth, telling me to take deep breaths, another nurse asking my surgeon what type of music he wanted to listen to (judging by the pain, I'm not sure I like his taste of music), and as they straightened me out on the table and tied down my arms and legs, I was scared, but then: I was out.

Two pins, a metal plate and two hours later…

I awoke to someone pushing me to the recovery room. This part seems a little foggy in my mind, but I was greeted by Laura, an older lady who I now know of as my recovery nurse. I remember trying to make conversation with her, but looking back, I have no idea what I was saying.

Nonetheless, Laura was great. She called Lizz, my post-op lifesaver, who took the day off to sit with me in the recovery room and take me home when I was ready. She called my mom to assure her I was okay. She got me cranberry juice, crackers, painkillers, drugs for my IV drip. And finally, when I started to make sense of everything, including the pain, Laura called the anesthesiologists back to give me the “block” they thought I wouldn’t initially need.

The “block.” Much like an epidural to numb the pain, the doctor (who brought along two residents to demonstrate) used an ultrasound machine over my kneecap, as he dug around in the back of my leg, behind my knee, with a two-inch needle to numb the nerve leading to my lower leg. And when I say “looking for,” I mean, he was pointing out to the students everywhere the needle was on the ultrasound screen. Thankfully I was drugged up enough to kindly tell him to “Just do it already.” And soon thereafter, my leg was numb (much like the feeling when a limb falls asleep, sometimes consequence of sitting too long) and I was at ease.

Last minute things

(Crutching around.)

Tomorrow is my surgery.

[[I'll let that statement stand alone because it's been running through my mind all day.]]

Today I hobbled around my house, did some laundry and crutched to the bank a few blocks over for some cash (which I know will unwillingly go straight to cab rides -- ah, the joys of immobility in the city). Last minute things to prepare myself for post-op recovery.

My ankle is swollen today, but it is a recognizable pain, probably from previous breaks and bruises, and the boot helps ease some of the pressure of walking with the crutches.

After the surgery, I won't be able to put any weight on my leg for two weeks. Strong arms and left leg are a go.

I tried to stay busy today to keep my mind off the idea of surgery, but now that the day is coming to an end, it's really all I can think about.

I have to be there by 5AM for pre-op. The surgery is scheduled for 7:30AM... Less than 12 hours away.

Peter is planning to wake up at 4AM to take me to the hospital... I'm not sure he knows how thankful I am to have him there with me.

...Hoping for sleep, a "smooth operation" and peace of mind...

Final Thought: The next few entries may be feeble. Interesting to say the least. Now let the withering anesthesia, IV drugs and painkillers do the talking...

You have a what?!

...A Cankle.

When I woke this morning, my foot was more swollen than the previous night, and as I got out of bed, it took very [very] little time to determine that walking would not be my best option.

***If you’re wondering, Urban Dictionary defines the cankle as: "The absence of a defined ankle on a person (a sight common among the morbidly obese) - whereby the calf of the leg merges directly into the foot, creating a sense of union between the two. Thus "cankle" comes from the fusion of calf and ankle.” (See photo, my cankle, above.)***

After several unsuccessful calls to orthopedic doctors in the area, I ended up at National Orthopedics at Washington Hospital Center. And after about three hours of waiting, I got x-rays and the unexpected news…

My doctor, Dr. Douoguih (pronounced: do-woah-gee... I think), informed me that my right ankle is basically shattered. I ripped and tore all the ligaments in my ankle; therefore, the tibia and fibula bones in my lower leg are pushing outward.

The “fix” -- Surgery. Two pins and a metal plate to secure the bones and ligaments back in place.

I went to the doctor’s office thinking I would walk out with crutches, a boot and some pain medication. Not at all did I expect surgery... and not at all did I expect it would be scheduled two days away – Not looking forward to Wednesday...

Old Rag Mountain - Elevation 3,284 feet

Wanting to get out DC for the day, Peter and I decided to go hiking in Shenandoah National Park. We both heard from friends that Old Rag Mountain is a cool place within the park – a nine-mile loop with a rock scramble right before the summit.

It was a great hike with awesome views and an occasional cool breeze to keep the sweat to a minimum.

We had just finished the toughest part of the rock scramble and we’re reaching the top, when we passed a couple whereby the woman was scared to step over a small crack in a rock. Her partner (already in charge of carrying her backpack in addition to his own) was attempting to talk her through it, as she said she had psyched herself out.

Passing the couple to reach the top, I was laughing at the fact that the woman got so close to the summit and yet was scared of such a small step.

Hello Karma… and a four-foot jump off a rock!

As I was coming down off of the jump, my right foot landed sideways and on came the popping noise.

…I went down…

Peter came running back to see what was wrong, and my mind went into survival mode. My first thought was “I have to get down NOW.”

After a short debate about the “right decision,” I calmed down and figured maybe it wasn’t “that bad,” maybe it was just bruised, and I decided I could make the 4.5-mile trek down the fire road and the .5 mile walk back to the car. And on we went…

About two miles of limping down the fire road, fate was on my side, as we ran into three park volunteers, one of which happened to be a doctor.

Laid out on the gravel road, the volunteer gave me an ibuprofen and put an icepack and ace bandage around my ankle. Not only was he some sort of prophet in my eyes, but he and his fellow volunteers have a pretty cool weekend gig, too.

And after what became one of the longest hikes of my life, we finally made it back to the car, refueled with Powerade and peanut butter sandwiches and headed back to DC.

At that point I was still running on full adrenaline, pseudo-swelling and minimal pain. Foot propped on pillow, I went to sleep hoping for a better morning…

Reader's Note:

The following blog entries are a personal account of my experience, my memories, my pain, my appreciation and my strength as I face challenges I once took for granted…

The irony...

About two weeks ago I was walking by Gallaudet University, "the world's leading undergraduate school for deaf and hard-of-hearing students," when I noticed a special device at the crosswalks to help disabled students in crossing the street.

That same day I saw a blind man leaving my office building, and as he crossed over the intersection of 13th and F St towards Metro Center, the only thing to guide him across the busy street was his walking stick and his sense of perception - a notion that others were moving past him, crossing to opposite side of the street.

Being the inquisitive type, my mind started thinking about the everyday things I take for granted...'things' that certain physically disabled people in this city (and beyond) would find as a challenge. Everything from a trip to the grocery store, a commute to work, dining out... everything requires planning.

It was two weeks ago when I when I told a friend about these thoughts and my interest in the issue. And then we went hiking......