Forgot about the blog. Got so used to having a left foot immobilized and swinging around like a monkey on crutches, just forgot. Still hate the cast, and the crutches, but it's not as bad as it was. Been since Nov. 7, the surgery, first two weeks in a splint, then since in a rock-hard but wonderfully holiday-colored cast. Must say, it's lovely. Must say, it's making me say stuff like "Must say, it's lovely." I'll stop now.
ONE WEEK TO GO! This time next week, the cast is off, a walking cast/boot is on and therapy can begin, I am so ready for this. Much as I'm used to the cast and crutches, it totally blows to not be able to carry a goddam thing, save for a cup or plate and gingerly at that. I mean I carry my laptop bag every day, over my shoulder, that's not TOO bad, but can't really shamble up stairs with things in my hand. Laundry has suffered, my daughter's moved and she's not around to help me bring it down and up, so I have a huge basket full, ready to somehow get downstairs, in the car, to the laundromat. I'm thinking of doing it in bags. Or maybe lowering it down on a rope out my kitchen window. Shit, I think that would work!! Of course anyone can see where this is going, any time any mechanically impaired male (me) thinks he has a great idea involving moving parts and/or physics, he's screwed, things will not end well. Does it keep us from trying? FUCK NO! Bring on the rope, I'm ready.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Candy is dandy and on a cast it's a gas
OK, bad headline. But I went to the doctor today, 16 days after surgery, to get stitches out and splint changed. I thought I'd get a walking boot, but doc said no, we'll put you in a cast for four weeks, let the surgery heal up right and proper. I can't argue that. I mean, it was ruptured, and they took both broken ends, sewed them together and then sewed in the big-toe tendon to make it even more secure. So yeah, I can see letting it heal and immobility is about the only way. Sucks it's for four weeks, but it is what it is. Then the walking boot goes on and therapy starts. Can't wait.
But the cast is cool, hope to post photo of it. Guess they don't do run-of-the-mill casts anymore, the guy asked what color I wanted, and was going with blue, but he said "I can do a candy cane thing, red with green stripes," so I said sure. And that's what I got. Rather dashing, I must say, and fits the season. Will find out at Thanksgiving dinner just how smashing others think it is, too...
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Two plus weeks..are we there yet?
OK, now I'm getting impatient, which I knew would happen. Was two weeks ago yesterday I had surgery, and it's gone well, very little pain, a little twinge, twitch, tickle here and there, probably healing, I'm getting around, albeit slowly on crutches, but almost feel normal. Save for this club foot that's preventing me from free movement, playing hockey, skiing, walking like a normal human, etc.
So now I'm officially in the "Are we there yet?" stage. I knew it would happen. I have been VERY good about keeping the hoof up for the past two weeks to minimize swelling and it's worked, I have it down a lot now, leg crossed, on floor whatever, and it doesn't feel all puffy and fat, just feels like, well, a club foot. That's a hard part, too, getting used to the big old bandage around my whole lower leg, plus splint beneath. In bed it feels like I'm wearing a massive boot and 10 pairs of heavy socks.
But now I want to start therapy. I can't, they said six weeks on crutches, and I get it, but my head doesn't. It wants to move and move now. I know I can't Must convince that big open space 'tween my ears to go slow.
I've never gone slow. Every injury I've ever had, I've pushed to come back and always have. Mind you, this is THE most serious one ever and then I was well, much younger and more able to rebound. So I must go slow. Head, are you listening???
I go to doc tomorrow, taking the stitches out, I think like 30 in all, should be fun. Then a new splint and wrap. I have many questions to ask, like when can I put weight on, is there anything I can do between now and therapy to help myself out, things like that. I have many, many questions. Thankfully, they're very, very patient. Whereas, me, not so much. So we get along.
had fun with Jess today. I needed food but can't get around a store with carriage, and I surely can't carry anything to car, up stairs, etc. So we went and I got me one of those little electric grocery carts, you know, the types really old people and cripples use? Well, I'm not REALLY old, but I am cripple. At first, I felt self conscious, especially with Jessie laughing at me and taking cell photos (expect them on Facebook soon, I love that kid), but then I got used to it and it was rather fun. For one thing, it reminded me of being a kid and seeing things at three-foot level. For another, I was driving something. Men are like that. We like driving things. We like golf carts for example, and boats and things we can command. We're weird like that. That's just the way we are. And we never ask directions. In my little electric golf cart, I never stopped once for directions. I did, however, have to swap my first one out for another, the battery was dying. Jess wondered what would happen if it died in the middle of an aisle. I said you'd just sit there and turn into a skeleton if no one found you. Then again you'd have lots to eat. Unless you were in housewares or detergent. ugh.
OK, back to work.
So now I'm officially in the "Are we there yet?" stage. I knew it would happen. I have been VERY good about keeping the hoof up for the past two weeks to minimize swelling and it's worked, I have it down a lot now, leg crossed, on floor whatever, and it doesn't feel all puffy and fat, just feels like, well, a club foot. That's a hard part, too, getting used to the big old bandage around my whole lower leg, plus splint beneath. In bed it feels like I'm wearing a massive boot and 10 pairs of heavy socks.
But now I want to start therapy. I can't, they said six weeks on crutches, and I get it, but my head doesn't. It wants to move and move now. I know I can't Must convince that big open space 'tween my ears to go slow.
I've never gone slow. Every injury I've ever had, I've pushed to come back and always have. Mind you, this is THE most serious one ever and then I was well, much younger and more able to rebound. So I must go slow. Head, are you listening???
I go to doc tomorrow, taking the stitches out, I think like 30 in all, should be fun. Then a new splint and wrap. I have many questions to ask, like when can I put weight on, is there anything I can do between now and therapy to help myself out, things like that. I have many, many questions. Thankfully, they're very, very patient. Whereas, me, not so much. So we get along.
had fun with Jess today. I needed food but can't get around a store with carriage, and I surely can't carry anything to car, up stairs, etc. So we went and I got me one of those little electric grocery carts, you know, the types really old people and cripples use? Well, I'm not REALLY old, but I am cripple. At first, I felt self conscious, especially with Jessie laughing at me and taking cell photos (expect them on Facebook soon, I love that kid), but then I got used to it and it was rather fun. For one thing, it reminded me of being a kid and seeing things at three-foot level. For another, I was driving something. Men are like that. We like driving things. We like golf carts for example, and boats and things we can command. We're weird like that. That's just the way we are. And we never ask directions. In my little electric golf cart, I never stopped once for directions. I did, however, have to swap my first one out for another, the battery was dying. Jess wondered what would happen if it died in the middle of an aisle. I said you'd just sit there and turn into a skeleton if no one found you. Then again you'd have lots to eat. Unless you were in housewares or detergent. ugh.
OK, back to work.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Ambulatoriness is wonderful
Don't even know if that's a word, ambulatoriness. Should be. Anyway, I am. Up to a point. Doc cleared me yesterday to drive. I went, with Jess, she drove, and doc says wound looks great, healing well. I never, ever listen to doctors, or didn't when I was younger, I just plunged ahead into recovery and did what I wanted when I wanted. Not this time. They said sit around a lot with foot up, I did. And I guess that's why their doctors, they appear to know what they're saying.
Anyway, doc says sure, drive, just don't overdo it. So I've been driving since yesterday, and it's not bad, little pain if it's down too long, but then I get wherever and put the hoof up. Sucks being on crutches, still, I mean, so much planning to just get around and getting up and down stairs from this shit apartment, with it's curling stairwell and ailing cat always camped on one of the steps that refuses to move no matter how hard I whack him with the crutch (and I LOVE cats, if I didn't, little phucker would be dead now), but I'm getting by.
Went to Beth's last night and on way home today, stopped at car dealer to see cars with Jess, then went for haircut, home, took nap. Felt old. I mean really, a nap? But I just needed it. And I'm listening to my body now. Usually listen to just the one part all men love, but not any more, listening to the whole thing now and if it needs rest, rest it gets.
Also found out my barber, great guy, Tony, can't recall his last name, but it's Italian, is retiring end of the year. Been down the Weir for 44 years, I can't imagine being in one spot that long, but he's calling it quits.
Funny think about barbers you get used to, they leave, retire, whatever, you feel deprived. I told him it's like having a doctor you like, or whatever who you go to, get to know. When they leave, it's like "You can't go! You're MY barber (or whatever)!!!" I feel abandoned. He has a new guy taking over, will give him a shot, younger guy. Tony's been great, just a classy gentleman, great head of snow-white hair, friendly, remembers who you are, what you do. Make a helluva bartender, too. anyway, he'll be missed, and by lots who've known him longer than I...
Anyway, doc says sure, drive, just don't overdo it. So I've been driving since yesterday, and it's not bad, little pain if it's down too long, but then I get wherever and put the hoof up. Sucks being on crutches, still, I mean, so much planning to just get around and getting up and down stairs from this shit apartment, with it's curling stairwell and ailing cat always camped on one of the steps that refuses to move no matter how hard I whack him with the crutch (and I LOVE cats, if I didn't, little phucker would be dead now), but I'm getting by.
Went to Beth's last night and on way home today, stopped at car dealer to see cars with Jess, then went for haircut, home, took nap. Felt old. I mean really, a nap? But I just needed it. And I'm listening to my body now. Usually listen to just the one part all men love, but not any more, listening to the whole thing now and if it needs rest, rest it gets.
Also found out my barber, great guy, Tony, can't recall his last name, but it's Italian, is retiring end of the year. Been down the Weir for 44 years, I can't imagine being in one spot that long, but he's calling it quits.
Funny think about barbers you get used to, they leave, retire, whatever, you feel deprived. I told him it's like having a doctor you like, or whatever who you go to, get to know. When they leave, it's like "You can't go! You're MY barber (or whatever)!!!" I feel abandoned. He has a new guy taking over, will give him a shot, younger guy. Tony's been great, just a classy gentleman, great head of snow-white hair, friendly, remembers who you are, what you do. Make a helluva bartender, too. anyway, he'll be missed, and by lots who've known him longer than I...
Monday, November 14, 2011
Sure sign of the (personal) apocalypse
Been a week now since operation, healing well, far as I know (it's under wraps, could be festering and teeming with dangerous microbes, who knows), and no pain, well, little from time to time but not bad.
Been locked up here since last Tuesday which, if I'm not mistaken, is the absolute longest time I've been in one small place since...I hesitate to say the womb, but close. Been here a long, long time, seems longer really than it's been, but since I'm restless to start with, it's been a challenge. I work regularly, have my hoof up next to my computer as I type this, following doctor's "toes above nose" orders to keep wound elevated above the heart as best I can, hoping it speeds recovery.
But cabin fever has officially set in. Big time. I'm going freaking nuts. I hate day-time TV, and much at night, and read the Kindle when I can, but prefer to work through the day to maintain some sense of normalcy and routine.
But I can tell my mind is mush because of what just happened. Just had "The Death Talk" with Mickey. My cat. Honestly. The fat tub of fur, all 18 pounds, was laying in a sun beam on the living room floor and I was just standing there, on crutches, looking at him and this conversation actually took place:
Me: Hey.
Mickey: (just stares)
Me: Lemme ask you something...
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Say I just fell right now, hit my head and died, right here, on the floor. Say I wasn't checked on by other people, lucky I am really, but say I wasn't. Say I died, and in a day or two you ran out of food and no one knew I was dead.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I always heard that a cat, when trapped in a house with a dead person, that cat, or cats if there's a bunch, will get really hungry and then start eating the dead person, but starting with the eyeballs, cause it's the softest part of the body.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Makes sense, I guess, path of least resistance and all. But anyway, just wondering if that's true. Whaddya think? Is it true?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Stop looking at my eyes like that, I know what you're thinking.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: OK, fine, but just remember how nice I've been to you all these years. I took you out of the pound, gave you a home, loved you, fed you, cleaned your litter box. Just don't forget, OK?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: (Just stares)
Mickey (Just stares. Wins. I move back into my office, sit down)
Me: Please stop staring. I know you are.
Mickey: Just make sure you land face up.
Me: I'll try.
Mickey: (Just stares)
I need to get out of the house. And not fall down in front of Mickey on the way out.
Been locked up here since last Tuesday which, if I'm not mistaken, is the absolute longest time I've been in one small place since...I hesitate to say the womb, but close. Been here a long, long time, seems longer really than it's been, but since I'm restless to start with, it's been a challenge. I work regularly, have my hoof up next to my computer as I type this, following doctor's "toes above nose" orders to keep wound elevated above the heart as best I can, hoping it speeds recovery.
But cabin fever has officially set in. Big time. I'm going freaking nuts. I hate day-time TV, and much at night, and read the Kindle when I can, but prefer to work through the day to maintain some sense of normalcy and routine.
But I can tell my mind is mush because of what just happened. Just had "The Death Talk" with Mickey. My cat. Honestly. The fat tub of fur, all 18 pounds, was laying in a sun beam on the living room floor and I was just standing there, on crutches, looking at him and this conversation actually took place:
Me: Hey.
Mickey: (just stares)
Me: Lemme ask you something...
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Say I just fell right now, hit my head and died, right here, on the floor. Say I wasn't checked on by other people, lucky I am really, but say I wasn't. Say I died, and in a day or two you ran out of food and no one knew I was dead.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I always heard that a cat, when trapped in a house with a dead person, that cat, or cats if there's a bunch, will get really hungry and then start eating the dead person, but starting with the eyeballs, cause it's the softest part of the body.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Makes sense, I guess, path of least resistance and all. But anyway, just wondering if that's true. Whaddya think? Is it true?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: Stop looking at my eyes like that, I know what you're thinking.
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: OK, fine, but just remember how nice I've been to you all these years. I took you out of the pound, gave you a home, loved you, fed you, cleaned your litter box. Just don't forget, OK?
Mickey: (Just stares)
Me: (Just stares)
Mickey (Just stares. Wins. I move back into my office, sit down)
Me: Please stop staring. I know you are.
Mickey: Just make sure you land face up.
Me: I'll try.
Mickey: (Just stares)
I need to get out of the house. And not fall down in front of Mickey on the way out.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
My Big Hurt Left Foot - The Weekend with a Weak Foot
Weekends are no big deal to me, usually. I mean I have no set schedule for work, I work pretty much every day, doing what I want, when I want, how much I want, etc. Writers get to do that. The work is there, always there, so it's just a matter of spreading it out. I haven't had a 9-5 job in almost 15 years, and to be honest, I love it that way.
So the whole TGIF thing is lost on me. Thank God it's Friday may as well be Thank God it's quarter to four on a Wednesday morning. Really doesn't matter. I do work every day, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. The days all blend together.
But with the bum hoof leaving me homebound now for the fifth straight day, I'm more aware of the delineation of days, probably because I'm living every one, every 24 hour period of every day, here, right here, on the couch, my desk, the futon, bouncing between all of them on crutches. I know when it's Thursday because I can't wait for Friday because then it'll be Saturday which turns into Sunday and then Monday's gonna be soon and....so forth.
I have started every day with all good intentions of doing not just the usual work i do for the Globe and RI Monthly and other places, but finally getting started on a play I always wanted to write, or that book on my high-flying life as a flight attendant in the free-wheeling '70s. Every day, I tell myself, OK, this is Brain Dump Day, just gonna sit down and let stuff spill out, not worrying about context or spelling or comprehensibility, but just letting the thoughts that have been in my head forever take SOME shape on paper, or rather, screen.
Haven't done that yet. Always, I find an excuse, not so much verbally or even consciously, but just there, in my head, oh, well, I had this to do first, then that, then something else.
it's crap, of course, there's no excuse. This guy I met in the hospital, Ernie, the IT guy for Pawtucket schools, wants to write a book, he'd always wanted to be a writer, and said from talking to me, he's inspired to finally get going on one, maybe start down a new path in life. I'd told him to just do it, no excuses, just fire stuff out, write it down, don't think about the long-term consequences, just purge yourself, do the stream-of-consciousness thing and it'll take shape as the universe intends it to take shape.
And yes, it's a case of physician, heal thyself inasmuch as I GIVE great advice but can't take my own. But I will. I have to, too much going on inside my head driving me nuts, must get it out, get it down, tell the story even if no one else reads it.
I mean what the hell am I waiting for, what am I afraid of? Success? Failure? Little of both? Not sure. I should be afraid of not making the effort to succeed or fail. Someone once said the worst day of your life is the day you wake up and realize you never even TRIED to realize your potential. True that. I mean, I do a lot of stuff I LOVE doing, stuff I'm good at, I've realized my potential in chunks, some here, some there. But the bigger things, the overall things, the more encompassing things, the things that come with the tagline "projects," not so much. Writing a play is a project. Writing a book is a project. Not at least trying to do that is a sin against self. It hurts no one but me. And since I've often been accused of it always being about me (I'm not arguing that point, just stating it), gotta stop hurting me and set about starting - and finishing - a project.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. Man, I love great movie lines, and that's a good one. So are book lines, and I'm now reading "The Way of the Peaceful Warrior," by Dan Milman, which they made into a Nick Nolte movie, which I'll watch after I finish the book. One thought in that was it's not sad when someone dies. It's sad if they haven't lived.
Pretty deep thoughts for a weekend.
So the whole TGIF thing is lost on me. Thank God it's Friday may as well be Thank God it's quarter to four on a Wednesday morning. Really doesn't matter. I do work every day, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. The days all blend together.
But with the bum hoof leaving me homebound now for the fifth straight day, I'm more aware of the delineation of days, probably because I'm living every one, every 24 hour period of every day, here, right here, on the couch, my desk, the futon, bouncing between all of them on crutches. I know when it's Thursday because I can't wait for Friday because then it'll be Saturday which turns into Sunday and then Monday's gonna be soon and....so forth.
I have started every day with all good intentions of doing not just the usual work i do for the Globe and RI Monthly and other places, but finally getting started on a play I always wanted to write, or that book on my high-flying life as a flight attendant in the free-wheeling '70s. Every day, I tell myself, OK, this is Brain Dump Day, just gonna sit down and let stuff spill out, not worrying about context or spelling or comprehensibility, but just letting the thoughts that have been in my head forever take SOME shape on paper, or rather, screen.
Haven't done that yet. Always, I find an excuse, not so much verbally or even consciously, but just there, in my head, oh, well, I had this to do first, then that, then something else.
it's crap, of course, there's no excuse. This guy I met in the hospital, Ernie, the IT guy for Pawtucket schools, wants to write a book, he'd always wanted to be a writer, and said from talking to me, he's inspired to finally get going on one, maybe start down a new path in life. I'd told him to just do it, no excuses, just fire stuff out, write it down, don't think about the long-term consequences, just purge yourself, do the stream-of-consciousness thing and it'll take shape as the universe intends it to take shape.
And yes, it's a case of physician, heal thyself inasmuch as I GIVE great advice but can't take my own. But I will. I have to, too much going on inside my head driving me nuts, must get it out, get it down, tell the story even if no one else reads it.
I mean what the hell am I waiting for, what am I afraid of? Success? Failure? Little of both? Not sure. I should be afraid of not making the effort to succeed or fail. Someone once said the worst day of your life is the day you wake up and realize you never even TRIED to realize your potential. True that. I mean, I do a lot of stuff I LOVE doing, stuff I'm good at, I've realized my potential in chunks, some here, some there. But the bigger things, the overall things, the more encompassing things, the things that come with the tagline "projects," not so much. Writing a play is a project. Writing a book is a project. Not at least trying to do that is a sin against self. It hurts no one but me. And since I've often been accused of it always being about me (I'm not arguing that point, just stating it), gotta stop hurting me and set about starting - and finishing - a project.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. Man, I love great movie lines, and that's a good one. So are book lines, and I'm now reading "The Way of the Peaceful Warrior," by Dan Milman, which they made into a Nick Nolte movie, which I'll watch after I finish the book. One thought in that was it's not sad when someone dies. It's sad if they haven't lived.
Pretty deep thoughts for a weekend.
Friday, November 11, 2011
My Big Hurt Left Foot - Life as a Process
Life is a series of processes, big and small. Mostly small. You do things, routine things, to get through your day, your week, your life. You wake up, shower, shave, brush teeth, head to work the same way in the same car, see the same things along the way, the same people when you arrive. On weekends or off time, different processes, more relaxed, less routine perhaps but processes nonetheless.
We are a processed people. Eating too much processed food and ingesting FAR too much processed politics, but I digress.
Since I've been homebound (since Nov. 8), which I cannot stress enough is temporary and I'm in no way complaining about it, just observing, I've noticed how my process has changed. Well, not changed really, just slowed down. WAY down. Every process now requires a plan and if I'm smart, consolidation, ways to condense processes into one, to lessen impact on the injured foot and what it takes to work around it.
Going to the bathroom any day is never anything more than going to the bathroom. Now, it's planning the process. Do I use crutches or the wheeled stroller (a very worthy device but which makes me feel like I should be creaking through the aisles at Shaw's bitching that the price of tomato soup went up a cent and seeking senior discounts around every corner)? Crutches are easy, just lift and swoop and boom, you're there. But then you lean them on the wall, or one of them, stand on the good leg, do your business and you're done. Maybe. Depends on your business. If you sit, well then, a whole 'nother story to be sure. More time. More planning. More process. More processing.
If you use the wheeled thing, you kneel on it, with the knee of the bad leg, and fly across the kitchen, into a narrow hallway, and jockey into the bathroom. There, you freewheel it, leaning on the wall or sink, and do your business. Again, depending on what that business is. One or two. In the world of processing incapacitated bathroom stuff, numerics are quite important. One thing's for sure: When sitting, and trying to hold the injured leg aloft, it surely cuts down on reading time. Eliminates it actually.
One big help: The plastic male urinal thing they gave me at the hospital. THis thing is a godsend, it really is. Gotta go? Go! Right there, wherever you are. Provided you've thought to bring along your little friend to the couch, the bedroom, your office. I've no idea why one of these isn't by every man's bedside. Oh, right. Wives. Yeah, it's kinda gross, when you think about it, though you clean it all the time and it has a snap-lid device on it. But still, there it is, right there, which is full of, for lack of a better word "pee," right there on your nightstand. Separated by a thick wall of plastic, to be sure, but visible nonetheless. Which apparently women don't like. Men? We don't care, we'll go anywhere. It's one of the creator's gifts to our gender, the ability to go in front of people streaming by in cars on major highways, like we're invisible. One of the greatest gifts, I might add.
So there's that process. Probably the easiest. The hardest could be eating. My daughter, bless her heart, sees me every day, leaves food apportioned in fridge or wherever, making it easier for me to get to, so that's hugely helpful. But the process involves hobbling into the kitchen, again on crutches or the wheeled thing, preparing the food, pouring liquids, etc., and then getting it all back to the living room and safety of the couch and coffee table. Not easy. Forget it on crutches, no way to carry and hobble. Best on the wheeled thing, but then you're limited to one carry per item. Bring in the liquid. Back for the salad. Back for the main course. Shit, forget the fork and napkin, back again. Dessert? Well, maybe, if I'm up to it, but the idea of pounding something fattening down and letting it turn to inches around the waist by sitting on the couch sort of has deterred me from eating too much. So far I haven't noticed any weight gain. Then again, I'm wearing sweat pants. I'm not sure I want to try on jeans any time soon.
But like I said, it's all a process, and I don't mind. I sorta like breaking down these long-held mindless processes into tiny, analyzed bits to see how it's done. That's why I love Discovery and History channels, things like that showing how things work, how they're made. Processes fascinate me. I guess even my own when I step back to look at them.
On one foot of course.
We are a processed people. Eating too much processed food and ingesting FAR too much processed politics, but I digress.
Since I've been homebound (since Nov. 8), which I cannot stress enough is temporary and I'm in no way complaining about it, just observing, I've noticed how my process has changed. Well, not changed really, just slowed down. WAY down. Every process now requires a plan and if I'm smart, consolidation, ways to condense processes into one, to lessen impact on the injured foot and what it takes to work around it.
Going to the bathroom any day is never anything more than going to the bathroom. Now, it's planning the process. Do I use crutches or the wheeled stroller (a very worthy device but which makes me feel like I should be creaking through the aisles at Shaw's bitching that the price of tomato soup went up a cent and seeking senior discounts around every corner)? Crutches are easy, just lift and swoop and boom, you're there. But then you lean them on the wall, or one of them, stand on the good leg, do your business and you're done. Maybe. Depends on your business. If you sit, well then, a whole 'nother story to be sure. More time. More planning. More process. More processing.
If you use the wheeled thing, you kneel on it, with the knee of the bad leg, and fly across the kitchen, into a narrow hallway, and jockey into the bathroom. There, you freewheel it, leaning on the wall or sink, and do your business. Again, depending on what that business is. One or two. In the world of processing incapacitated bathroom stuff, numerics are quite important. One thing's for sure: When sitting, and trying to hold the injured leg aloft, it surely cuts down on reading time. Eliminates it actually.
One big help: The plastic male urinal thing they gave me at the hospital. THis thing is a godsend, it really is. Gotta go? Go! Right there, wherever you are. Provided you've thought to bring along your little friend to the couch, the bedroom, your office. I've no idea why one of these isn't by every man's bedside. Oh, right. Wives. Yeah, it's kinda gross, when you think about it, though you clean it all the time and it has a snap-lid device on it. But still, there it is, right there, which is full of, for lack of a better word "pee," right there on your nightstand. Separated by a thick wall of plastic, to be sure, but visible nonetheless. Which apparently women don't like. Men? We don't care, we'll go anywhere. It's one of the creator's gifts to our gender, the ability to go in front of people streaming by in cars on major highways, like we're invisible. One of the greatest gifts, I might add.
So there's that process. Probably the easiest. The hardest could be eating. My daughter, bless her heart, sees me every day, leaves food apportioned in fridge or wherever, making it easier for me to get to, so that's hugely helpful. But the process involves hobbling into the kitchen, again on crutches or the wheeled thing, preparing the food, pouring liquids, etc., and then getting it all back to the living room and safety of the couch and coffee table. Not easy. Forget it on crutches, no way to carry and hobble. Best on the wheeled thing, but then you're limited to one carry per item. Bring in the liquid. Back for the salad. Back for the main course. Shit, forget the fork and napkin, back again. Dessert? Well, maybe, if I'm up to it, but the idea of pounding something fattening down and letting it turn to inches around the waist by sitting on the couch sort of has deterred me from eating too much. So far I haven't noticed any weight gain. Then again, I'm wearing sweat pants. I'm not sure I want to try on jeans any time soon.
But like I said, it's all a process, and I don't mind. I sorta like breaking down these long-held mindless processes into tiny, analyzed bits to see how it's done. That's why I love Discovery and History channels, things like that showing how things work, how they're made. Processes fascinate me. I guess even my own when I step back to look at them.
On one foot of course.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
My Big Hurt Left Foot-Day 4
Well, the weather suits my mood, dark, rainy, dreary. Nah, that's not right, I'm not THAT bad, and actually have sorta discovered a routine in this most non-routine part of former and future active life. I'm a writer, I can work anywhere, and having a bum foot doesn't mean anything, unless I typed with my feet. I think a problem was I'm trying to work from my couch, always dangerous, with foot up, laptop on my lap, trying to pretend it's normal. It's not. What's normal is me in my little office, so I'm relocating there, pulling all the notes and such I had on the coffee table into my office, putting a pillow on the radiator and window sill and hoisting my big hurt left foot up there to rest, keep the swelling down, and working. I just did it for a few, felt great, felt regular, felt normal, like I was in my work space as usual. I think this will be a huge help in breaking up the days ahead. Only drawback is I can't just jog off to the bathroom or kitchen quickly, have to plan, get the crutches or wheeled walker thing, and take a few minutes to do it.
But gotta do it, it's helping, and I'll work through the day as usual, and instead of taking off later tonight to Beth's, she may come here, and Jess is good about being around. And I've got tons to read on the Kindle, on the internet, there's always something to do to keep the mind active.
Getting better, slow but sure, still be a long next week and a half but then I'll be out and about, driving, almost normal (on crutches), then rehab can start and it'll be done. yeah, I'm going with that...
But gotta do it, it's helping, and I'll work through the day as usual, and instead of taking off later tonight to Beth's, she may come here, and Jess is good about being around. And I've got tons to read on the Kindle, on the internet, there's always something to do to keep the mind active.
Getting better, slow but sure, still be a long next week and a half but then I'll be out and about, driving, almost normal (on crutches), then rehab can start and it'll be done. yeah, I'm going with that...
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
My Big Hurt Left Foot - Day 2..or 3..??
It's Wednesday and I'm flat on my back on my couch, my healing foot raised, absolutely amazed that I'm really not liking having nothing to do all that much..if that makes sense...I mean, I hate being inactive. Granted there are some out there who say, "You're a freelance writer, you're home all the time writing anyway when you're not on a Caribbean beach somewhere or other exotic location you SOB," and yeah, you'd be right.
Maybe if I had a job that was heavy on physical labor, I'd be loving this respite. But I don't. I don't tax my body, I tax my mind, which just made me want to say something politically cute like "at least the liberals haven't taxed my mind yet," but realized that technically I AM a liberal so that won't work..
Anyway, I think the problem is my mind is way to active. Honestly, when I'm driving, I almost never listen to the radio, I just think. No, really. If I listen at all, it's not music but talk radio, switching happily from NPR to right-wing lunatics, enjoying the difference of both and making up my own mind.
So that's the problem, I have just too much to think about, too much to do. There have been days when I don't leave the house, and I feel really weird when that happens, I hate being in all day, so I usually go out, get some food, go to a play in Providence, or more likely, to Beth's house in Marion, and right about now, my first full house-bound day, I'm missing Beth AND Marion in a huge way. But the doc says no driving for at least a week, maybe two, gotta lay back, put the foot above the heart and keep the thing from swelling or clotting or whatever the raised-foot thing is doing. And I'm hear to tell you that a laptop is not really designed to be typed while on a lap. It's damn warm for one thing, and I'm lying flat, typing at a weird angle.
Plus, TV sucks, day or night, it's getting dark early, I have to really master crutches to move around better and be able to cook and fetch food back to the living room and man, I can bitch, huh? I've always been good at bitching, just ask..well anyone. Now I've got lots to bitch about.
Then again, no, I don't, not at all. I have a couple weeks of this, a few more on crutches, a couple or few months of therapy and then I'll be back on my literal feet doing all the stuff I love, playing hockey, traveling, just moving about. Many are the people who haven't this luxury of just waiting a few months to be right again. So I'll stop bitching and count my blessings.
But if anyone has a line on an iPad for cheap, lemme know, it would make my downtime SO much easier, I used one in the hospital and damn, it's fun.
OK, off to try showering now. I'll put one of those cast condoms on, you know, those plastic coverings you but that keeps out the water, and sit in a shower chair and try not to get my leg wet or drown or fall and split my head open. Man, this should be fun. Who knew the biggest challenge of the day would be taking a shower?
Maybe if I had a job that was heavy on physical labor, I'd be loving this respite. But I don't. I don't tax my body, I tax my mind, which just made me want to say something politically cute like "at least the liberals haven't taxed my mind yet," but realized that technically I AM a liberal so that won't work..
Anyway, I think the problem is my mind is way to active. Honestly, when I'm driving, I almost never listen to the radio, I just think. No, really. If I listen at all, it's not music but talk radio, switching happily from NPR to right-wing lunatics, enjoying the difference of both and making up my own mind.
So that's the problem, I have just too much to think about, too much to do. There have been days when I don't leave the house, and I feel really weird when that happens, I hate being in all day, so I usually go out, get some food, go to a play in Providence, or more likely, to Beth's house in Marion, and right about now, my first full house-bound day, I'm missing Beth AND Marion in a huge way. But the doc says no driving for at least a week, maybe two, gotta lay back, put the foot above the heart and keep the thing from swelling or clotting or whatever the raised-foot thing is doing. And I'm hear to tell you that a laptop is not really designed to be typed while on a lap. It's damn warm for one thing, and I'm lying flat, typing at a weird angle.
Plus, TV sucks, day or night, it's getting dark early, I have to really master crutches to move around better and be able to cook and fetch food back to the living room and man, I can bitch, huh? I've always been good at bitching, just ask..well anyone. Now I've got lots to bitch about.
Then again, no, I don't, not at all. I have a couple weeks of this, a few more on crutches, a couple or few months of therapy and then I'll be back on my literal feet doing all the stuff I love, playing hockey, traveling, just moving about. Many are the people who haven't this luxury of just waiting a few months to be right again. So I'll stop bitching and count my blessings.
But if anyone has a line on an iPad for cheap, lemme know, it would make my downtime SO much easier, I used one in the hospital and damn, it's fun.
OK, off to try showering now. I'll put one of those cast condoms on, you know, those plastic coverings you but that keeps out the water, and sit in a shower chair and try not to get my leg wet or drown or fall and split my head open. Man, this should be fun. Who knew the biggest challenge of the day would be taking a shower?
Starve me, cut me, medicate me. Thanks.
I hadn't been to Rhode Island Hospital in ages. No reason to, really. I was here in 1980 for shoulder surgery and think the only times I'd come since were to visit people or do stories on something there.
But Monday, Nov. 7, 2011, I show up to be starved, sliced open and medicated. Mmm, what fun..
Dr. Christopher DiGiovanni is my surgeon, a great guy, one of the best foot doctors in New England. Must ask how he got into that specialty. That amazes me, how docs get into specialties. I mean really, how the hell does anyone end up, pun intended, in proctology for example?
I follow instructions and have nothing to eat or drink after midnight. My surgery's at 2 p.m. Anyone knowing my appetite knows that for me, that's about like not eating for a month. But I did it, amazingly, maybe nerves ate into my desire to eat, who knows.
So I'm in the little pre-operating area, whatever that's called, and they're all super nice, very friendly, laughing at my stupid jokes, making me feel like I matter. Weird thing about modern surgery: You clean yourself first. Really. I'd been given instructions to wash with a special soap the night before and morning of surgery, and then that morning, in that little pre-op area, a nice nurse hands me a little tub of soap and a brush and tells me to wash my leg and achille's area for five minutes.
This strikes me as odd. I mean, don't THEY clean the surgical area, too? Yes, they do, but patients have to do it first. Why, I have no idea. Make us feel part of the process? I'd rather just lay back with a ham sandwich, thank you very much, but since that wasn't gonna happen, I just scrubbed my foot as directed.
There are a lot of people in this room. Maybe it's me, maybe it's my imagination, maybe it's the sedative they just pumped into my IV. Whatever, there are a lot of people in this room. They wheel me out to the OR and I make more stupid jokes which they laugh at, or not, I'm too fuzzy at this point to really know or care, and then looking up at the lights in the OR and commenting on the sheer volume of people milling about ready to take care of my big hurt left foot, boom, gone, out like a light, remembering nothing until hours later in recovery when the first thing I do is ask for some food, please, I'm starving here.
My girlfriend comes in and later comments I seemed out of it, more so than usual. True, I was. But I do recall just how good that coffee and buttered wheat toast tasted.
They tell me they're keeping me over night, no idea why, maybe they told me, but I'm too groggy to remember. I immediately say "Fine, great, when's dinner?" I cannot believe how hungry I am. They say sometimes after surgery and anesthesia, patients throw up. Me, I just wanted to throw down as much food as possible.
In my room, I got a chicken dinner. Not enough. They brought me some pot roast. OK, getting there. An hour later, I sheepishly asked for something else, and so they brought me a turkey sandwich. Nice, now I'm getting full.
Slept pretty good, no pain at all, oddly enough, but they kept asking if I wanted pain meds, I kept saying no until about midnight when I relented. Slept pretty good save for the every few hours of being woken up to test my vitals. I mean, I'm breathing, isn't that a good indication my vitals are OK? WHy can't they just leave you alone to sleep? Hospitals are weird like that. But bless my nurse, I told her I was hungry and she offered to get me food. Nah, I'll wait and double down on breakfast.
Another plus: Urinals, those portable ones they give you in hospitals. The guys have it made, it's not a bed pan but a big spacious plastic container that is SO easy to use in the middle of the night. Best part: You leave it on your night table and someone miraculously comes to dump it while you sleep. The hospital pee fairy I figure. Whatever, I'm loving it.
But Monday, Nov. 7, 2011, I show up to be starved, sliced open and medicated. Mmm, what fun..
Dr. Christopher DiGiovanni is my surgeon, a great guy, one of the best foot doctors in New England. Must ask how he got into that specialty. That amazes me, how docs get into specialties. I mean really, how the hell does anyone end up, pun intended, in proctology for example?
I follow instructions and have nothing to eat or drink after midnight. My surgery's at 2 p.m. Anyone knowing my appetite knows that for me, that's about like not eating for a month. But I did it, amazingly, maybe nerves ate into my desire to eat, who knows.
So I'm in the little pre-operating area, whatever that's called, and they're all super nice, very friendly, laughing at my stupid jokes, making me feel like I matter. Weird thing about modern surgery: You clean yourself first. Really. I'd been given instructions to wash with a special soap the night before and morning of surgery, and then that morning, in that little pre-op area, a nice nurse hands me a little tub of soap and a brush and tells me to wash my leg and achille's area for five minutes.
This strikes me as odd. I mean, don't THEY clean the surgical area, too? Yes, they do, but patients have to do it first. Why, I have no idea. Make us feel part of the process? I'd rather just lay back with a ham sandwich, thank you very much, but since that wasn't gonna happen, I just scrubbed my foot as directed.
There are a lot of people in this room. Maybe it's me, maybe it's my imagination, maybe it's the sedative they just pumped into my IV. Whatever, there are a lot of people in this room. They wheel me out to the OR and I make more stupid jokes which they laugh at, or not, I'm too fuzzy at this point to really know or care, and then looking up at the lights in the OR and commenting on the sheer volume of people milling about ready to take care of my big hurt left foot, boom, gone, out like a light, remembering nothing until hours later in recovery when the first thing I do is ask for some food, please, I'm starving here.
My girlfriend comes in and later comments I seemed out of it, more so than usual. True, I was. But I do recall just how good that coffee and buttered wheat toast tasted.
They tell me they're keeping me over night, no idea why, maybe they told me, but I'm too groggy to remember. I immediately say "Fine, great, when's dinner?" I cannot believe how hungry I am. They say sometimes after surgery and anesthesia, patients throw up. Me, I just wanted to throw down as much food as possible.
In my room, I got a chicken dinner. Not enough. They brought me some pot roast. OK, getting there. An hour later, I sheepishly asked for something else, and so they brought me a turkey sandwich. Nice, now I'm getting full.
Slept pretty good, no pain at all, oddly enough, but they kept asking if I wanted pain meds, I kept saying no until about midnight when I relented. Slept pretty good save for the every few hours of being woken up to test my vitals. I mean, I'm breathing, isn't that a good indication my vitals are OK? WHy can't they just leave you alone to sleep? Hospitals are weird like that. But bless my nurse, I told her I was hungry and she offered to get me food. Nah, I'll wait and double down on breakfast.
Another plus: Urinals, those portable ones they give you in hospitals. The guys have it made, it's not a bed pan but a big spacious plastic container that is SO easy to use in the middle of the night. Best part: You leave it on your night table and someone miraculously comes to dump it while you sleep. The hospital pee fairy I figure. Whatever, I'm loving it.
How I Got My Big Hurt Left Foot
In March 2011, I was running barefoot on the beach in St. Lucia. Mind you, I found out later it's dangerous to run barefoot in the sand, especially if you're of the over-50 variety, which I most definitely am. Plus, and I believe this with all my heart, if man were meant to still be running, there'd still be a saber tooth tiger about 10 feet behind him as the reason why.
So I ran down this beautiful beach, to actually help someone out. See, there was this group of kiteboarders and one guy's wife had hung up on a reef, so he sailed in to ask me to alert the rescue boat people about 200 yards away. Why HE didn't just sail there to do it still baffles me, and dude, if you're reading this, you owe me an apology and an uninjured left foot.
So I huff and puff my way down the beach and find out the rescue boat left about five minutes ago, meaning my huffing and puffing was in vain. Nice. So now I'm standing there, panting heavily (I was smoking then, have since quit), and suddenly feel agonizing pain in my left achille's. Not unusual, I've been athletic all my life and things hurt from time to time and to be honest I can't think of a single part of my body I HAVEN'T hurt over the years, save for maybe my ear lobes. So I don't think much of it, I just limp around the rest of the day, but that night, chasing and missing a connection through MIA - which stands for Massively Incomprehensible Airline by the way - I pulled it pretty good again, this time to the point of wondering how badly I had hurt it.
Very, it turns out. I went to my ortho guy when I got home (ok, after a few weeks of playing hockey and ignoring the pain), and it was tore up, not ruptured, but pretty screwed up and on the verge of rupturing. So he puts me in a big plastic Aircast boot for six weeks and by five weeks, the foot feels way better - but I develop a screaming case of sciatica from walking unevenly in a big honking plastic boot. So now I can walk on my left foot OK, but my spine's feeling like someone plugged a live wire up my ass and cranked it up high. Pain like you cannot believe.
So a couple months of therapy for THAT, and I'm all better, foot's great, back's great, so I decide to go for a bike ride. Which isn't bad. What IS bad? I decide to do a little Evel Kinevel jump on a boat dock in Marion and push hard off my left foot - instantly rupturing the tendon, which I'd started to do months earlier and now, judging from the searing pain in the back of my leg, is pretty much a done deal.
Weird thing about Achille's ruptures. I'd always heard when you pop one, it snakes up the back of your leg like a window shade. Honestly. And there's pain, incredible pain and your foot is just dangling, uselessly. But not mine. It hurt, hurt like hell, but only for a couple days. I finally went to my local doc who said yup, it's ruptured and he was amazed I could still walk on it. And that WAS amazing, I walked for months, albeit with a limp, but a completely ruptured Achille's. WHen I finally got to see Dr. DiGiovanni in Rhode Island, he said there are four tendons down there doing tendon stuff and the other three were holding me together. He said I could leave it like that forever but wouldn't have the functionality of before, no sports, be walking funny forever, so I opted for surgery a couple months later.
And that's what happened two days ago, which I'll get to in the next post. No idea if anyone will read this stuff but since I've nothing to do but nothing for a couple weeks, it's reasonably good therapy and could possibly keep me from gaining 150 pounds over the next 14 days. Hopefully.
So I ran down this beautiful beach, to actually help someone out. See, there was this group of kiteboarders and one guy's wife had hung up on a reef, so he sailed in to ask me to alert the rescue boat people about 200 yards away. Why HE didn't just sail there to do it still baffles me, and dude, if you're reading this, you owe me an apology and an uninjured left foot.
So I huff and puff my way down the beach and find out the rescue boat left about five minutes ago, meaning my huffing and puffing was in vain. Nice. So now I'm standing there, panting heavily (I was smoking then, have since quit), and suddenly feel agonizing pain in my left achille's. Not unusual, I've been athletic all my life and things hurt from time to time and to be honest I can't think of a single part of my body I HAVEN'T hurt over the years, save for maybe my ear lobes. So I don't think much of it, I just limp around the rest of the day, but that night, chasing and missing a connection through MIA - which stands for Massively Incomprehensible Airline by the way - I pulled it pretty good again, this time to the point of wondering how badly I had hurt it.
Very, it turns out. I went to my ortho guy when I got home (ok, after a few weeks of playing hockey and ignoring the pain), and it was tore up, not ruptured, but pretty screwed up and on the verge of rupturing. So he puts me in a big plastic Aircast boot for six weeks and by five weeks, the foot feels way better - but I develop a screaming case of sciatica from walking unevenly in a big honking plastic boot. So now I can walk on my left foot OK, but my spine's feeling like someone plugged a live wire up my ass and cranked it up high. Pain like you cannot believe.
So a couple months of therapy for THAT, and I'm all better, foot's great, back's great, so I decide to go for a bike ride. Which isn't bad. What IS bad? I decide to do a little Evel Kinevel jump on a boat dock in Marion and push hard off my left foot - instantly rupturing the tendon, which I'd started to do months earlier and now, judging from the searing pain in the back of my leg, is pretty much a done deal.
Weird thing about Achille's ruptures. I'd always heard when you pop one, it snakes up the back of your leg like a window shade. Honestly. And there's pain, incredible pain and your foot is just dangling, uselessly. But not mine. It hurt, hurt like hell, but only for a couple days. I finally went to my local doc who said yup, it's ruptured and he was amazed I could still walk on it. And that WAS amazing, I walked for months, albeit with a limp, but a completely ruptured Achille's. WHen I finally got to see Dr. DiGiovanni in Rhode Island, he said there are four tendons down there doing tendon stuff and the other three were holding me together. He said I could leave it like that forever but wouldn't have the functionality of before, no sports, be walking funny forever, so I opted for surgery a couple months later.
And that's what happened two days ago, which I'll get to in the next post. No idea if anyone will read this stuff but since I've nothing to do but nothing for a couple weeks, it's reasonably good therapy and could possibly keep me from gaining 150 pounds over the next 14 days. Hopefully.
My Big Fat Hurt Left Foot
OK, just started this blog to outline two weeks in immobile hell, and the overall progress of repairs to my left achille's tendon. Had surgery Monday, Nov. 7 at R.I. Hospital, under the knife of Dr. Christopher DiGiovanni, THE lead foot/ankle dude doc in the state and one of best in New England (Brown grad, Brown teacher, head of foot ortho at RI Hospital, etc), and now at home facing two weeks of sitting. Literally. With the bum foot up, the left one. So, with apologies to Daniel Day Lewis, I figured to start:
My Big Fat Hurt Left Foot
I'll try to do a day-by-day rundown on how much it sucks to be an active human thrust into total inactivity and how to deal with it. So far, Vicodin is helping immeasurably...have six weeks on crutches, then a couple months of physical therapy. Doc figures six months I'll be doing sports again, particularly hockey which I miss so much it hurts....
I'm not proficient in doing blogs or getting word out on them but I'll do my best, via Facebook and, since I've time on my hand, perhaps Twitter, where I have an account that is dormant. Time to step into the social media world, albeit addled on Vicodin but still, it's a start..
OK, that's it for now, more later...
My Big Fat Hurt Left Foot
I'll try to do a day-by-day rundown on how much it sucks to be an active human thrust into total inactivity and how to deal with it. So far, Vicodin is helping immeasurably...have six weeks on crutches, then a couple months of physical therapy. Doc figures six months I'll be doing sports again, particularly hockey which I miss so much it hurts....
I'm not proficient in doing blogs or getting word out on them but I'll do my best, via Facebook and, since I've time on my hand, perhaps Twitter, where I have an account that is dormant. Time to step into the social media world, albeit addled on Vicodin but still, it's a start..
OK, that's it for now, more later...
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