For as long as I can remember, my mother has driven old cars. Not Husband's definition of ‘old’ which, is two car years. 'Old' like ten or twenty or thirty years with nothing electric or shiny or new 'old.' When we first moved to America, she carted us around in a VW square back named Henrietta. Henrietta was beige and stinky with no seatbelts and a rusted floorboard that mandated a swift hoist of your feet when she hit a puddle. We were mortified to be seen in her with our hand-me-downs and our Kenyan afros but Henrietta got us from point A to point B so Mom told us to get over it.
She followed Henrietta up with a Volvo with questionable environmental repercussions and doors that could slice off a finger. That thing was a tank and not only drove like one but sounded like one too. You could tell when she started the bugger up by the sudden flight of birds from the surrounding trees. Then Mom bought the car she still drives today, Nellie, a beat up blue rusty ’68 VW Bug. Nellie was purchased for me as my sixteenth birthday gift. Due to some lovely migraines with blackouts and a doctor’s note to not drive for a year, I didn’t get to drive Nellie. Mom did and still does. Nellie was a curmudgeon of a car. She was hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Her heater took two hours to work and smelled like exhaust. Her air conditioning was the two wing windows tilted just so and only really worked when you hit at least 30mph. She shook like an earthquake if you went over 50mph but would stall if you went below 10mph. And if you filled her gas tank up in the summer, it would overflow and saturate the carpet inside leaving you high on the fumes. Mom painted Nellie black and red, got her a new engine and seats and clutch and all the various bits and bobs needed to keep an old car running. But no matter what she did, Nellie still pissed and moaned about starting and would pop the clutch out of first whenever she felt like it, usually in rush hour traffic. Broken Ankle is like Nellie; it pisses and moans when starting, shakes if I go too fast and that sucker threatens to pop out of first whenever it feels like it. BUT she currently gets me from point A to point B so I am working on getting over it. I am “walking” people! Of course, "walking" means one step with Left Foot and then one very slow step with crutches and 20%(ish) of Broken Ankle. But that counts as "WALKING!" Yesterday, I went outside BY MYSELF. And I did some weeding, the big ones I could reach without bending over, BY MYSELF. And I came back upstairs BY MYSELF. Of course, I have to chant to myself, “Good foot first, bad foot second…” every time I step and it takes me ages to go anywhere and the swelling has been impressive. But it counts! So what if yesterday I was afraid my toes would pop off; they were that purple and squishy? So what if you can see the foam the indentation of the inside of the boot on/in my skin for hours after Boot comes off? So what if the surgery scars are PISSED OFF at this whole weight bearing endeavor? So what if nothing I do adds to the comfort and ease of anything and I moan and grimace so much I've got new wrinkles at the corners of my eyes? I'm still "WALKING!" Now, Husband is SO over the whole, “Look at my scar/swelling/bruise now...” conversation. (Heck, I even made Father-in-law participate in that via FaceTime so he's prepared when he gets here in a few weeks.) And I am SO over the random shooting waves of pain and the constant ache and the fifteen-minute hassle that is putting on of Boot and taking off of Boot. BUT, I haven’t had anything stronger than acetaminophen, chocolate and a hot bath since the dreaded Oxy withdrawal. I am able to get around a bit easier with Boot than with Stupid Green Cast. And each day is a bit better than the day before so there’s that. I know one day, I’ll be walking again without crutches or walkers or walls holding me up. That one day, I won’t have to think which foot to step up with and that I might get to wear more than just the one left shoe. That I won't be whispering, "You're okay... you're okay..." to myself under my breath with each and every step as I Frankenstein my way from room to room. I know that will happen by that day seems so dang far away... So for now, I’ll just take delight in the fact that I am able to put some weight on Broken Ankle and I haven’t broken back into the Oxy and I can get from point A to point B, just like Nellie. It’s the little things, people!
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I am now apparently allergic to penicillin. Taken it all my life, have one broken ankle, get very expensive ankle jewelry and now I'm allergic to penicillin.
And by allergic I mean turn into one horrible massive big itchy hive. And by horrible I mean hives in my ears. And hives on my scalp. And hives INSIDE the stupid big green cast that made the damn leg swell into an irritated inflamed mess and cause me to contemplate cutting the sucker off at the knee. After having scratched all the skin off the rest of my body, that is. And Pepper the Wannabe Cat is now a shivering growly mess whenever Tigger the Dog is near while Joe Boxer is still trying to figure out what the hell happened. My life right now is trying to monitor smelly dogs while stomping about on crutches - which isn't as glamorous as you might think. And this morning, while Husband was drying the dog dishes with a paper towel, I informed him that he just used a dishtowel to do that, he’d save on paper towels. He smiled a smug self-satisfied smile, and said, "I like my system. I’m in charge. I have all my legs." One. More. Week. We became members of Fight Club Friday night. I can talk about it because I wasn’t a willing participant. Frankly no one was a willing participant except the instigator, Tigger the Dog, but since we’re all part of the fight, I’ll do my best to blather out about the war.
I was on the couch, bright green covered leg elevated, minding my own business perusing the Internet for something new while Husband took the dogs out front for the post dinner pee. All was well as he came back in and I heard the chaos of the four-legged beasts milling about the entryway. And then the growling and shouting began. A sudden growl and yip and Husband started shouting at Tigger the Dog. There was cussing and growling and mayhem. I tried to see what was going on from the couch but only got glimpses of elbows and dog parts as the cussing got worse. I pulled myself up off the couch, flung the stool that was doubling as my table onto the couch, fumbled my crutches up off the floor and awkwardly shoved them under my armpits and stomped my way to the fight. Tigger the Dog had Pepper by the neck and was shaking her like a rag doll. Pepper, obviously terrified, was doing her best to get free. Husband was shouting and trying to pull Tigger off Pepper. I stumbled my three-legged self into the skirmish and immediately realized it was a mistake. In the least graceful way, I lowered/threw/splayed myself on the floor and tried to get Pepper out of Tigger’s jaw while keeping Broken Ankle out of the fray. It was at this point I realized that Tigger had shook Pepper so hard, shit flew out of her and around the room. And I was not sure I wasn’t sitting it. The fight continued and I had to put my possible shit covered ass aside. By this point, Husband, still shouting, had Tigger up by her hind legs and was pulling. I grabbed Tigger’s jaw and tried to pry it open. Pepper, not understanding I was on her side, bit my thumb. It was about two minutes of pulling and shouting and snarling and shaking and yapping before I finally got the jaw open and Pepper pulled free and Husband had wrestled Tigger to her crate and pinned her in. Joe Boxer, having watched the fight in confusion, came over to check Pepper out. Pepper was having none of that and attempted to crawl up my body and into my shirt leaving a trail of blood. Holes in her forehead and two large holes in her neck gushed. Husband crated Joe and I got on the phone for the Vet. It was at this point that he realized his hand was totally swollen and I realized that my thumb was bleeding and we both realized we were shaking. Pepper was wrapped up in a towel for the trip to the emergency vet and, while I waited for Husband to bring the car around, I wiped shit off my butt and the floor. When we got home later that night, hundreds of dollars poorer with a shaved and stoned Pepper in tow, we were too tired to bother going to the ER for our own injuries. I soaked the heck out of the thumb and Husband iced his now Stay Puff Marshmallow sized hand as we sat on the couch in a stupor. We’d be fine, we thought. Wrong. An ER visit to prevent a possible infection in the thumb bite that could settle in my new ankle jewelry and rot off my leg, a bad hives reaction to medication, another ER visit for me and for one for Husband and his possible broken hand, another very bad hives episode and we’re still dealing with the repercussions of Fight Club. Pepper is now understandably terrified of Tigger the Dog. Tigger the Dog is now an unknown entity in our once happy home. And Joe Boxer is still an idiot. What happens now, who knows? We’ve a call into the Vet for her opinion on the battle. I’ve got a call into my Doc for her opinion on the hives. Husband has lots of opinions and I don’t like any of them. Joe Boxer has no opinions because he’s dumb as a box of rocks. Right now, the dumb box of rocks is my favorite and I'm still itching. This not at all boring life we're leading is expensive and exhausting. Anybody want a dog? I cried yesterday for the first time since I felt the snap of my anklebones. I ugly cry-blubbered louder and harder than I did in the ER waiting room when they took in the third person that came in after me leaving me and my ever-swelling ankle dangling off the edge of the wheelchair. I cried and I cried and I cried because I have a broken leg and I can’t do anything quickly or easily or right. It wasn’t pretty. But nothing about these last 5 weeks have been pretty.
It started with the dog food. I’ve sort of gotten a routine going with the feeding of the dogs using the scooter; food and a little water into the bowls, dogs in the crate waiting, bowls down on each dog ‘table’ and then scoot myself out of the way as they charge. But yesterday, I got cocky. I let the dogs outside and filled the dishes while they were outside. I got Joe and Pepper’s food down without an issue but as I was scooting toward Tigger’s ‘table’, the scooter wheel caught the rug and the water saturated food spilled out of the dish and, in agonizing slow motion, scattered all over the white carpet in the dinning room. I stood there on one leg; right knee balanced on the scooter, bowl dangling from my hand just flummoxed, no clue what to do next. I could get down off my wheeled leg and scoop the food up but the odds of my getting back up without using Broken Ankle to raise myself were not good. I could put more food in Tigger’s bowl and let them all fight over the food on the floor or I could scoot my cussing self over to the door with the other dogs bowls, let Tigger eat her food off the floor and feed Joe and Pepper outside. I went with that last choice, having not thought through the major issue – getting a 70lb dog to go where I tell her to when food is involved. The three dogs were at the front door, waiting. I tried to open the door and have Tigger come in but Joe wiggled his body around the door, squeezed by her and into the house followed by Pepper. With my knee precariously balanced, I bent down and tried to feed them before letting Tigger in to eat in the other room. Tigger did not understand my plan. Pushing past the slightly open door, she slammed into my leg as she leapt over the scooter to get to Joe’s food. Joe, not being the smartest of dogs, stepped back and let Tigger have her way with his food. Pepper ignored the commotion and kept eating. “DAMNIT!” I yelled and tried to pull Tigger off the food, ripping a nail. Frustrated with the non-budging growling dog, I changed plans and tried taking Joe to the dining room for a breakfast buffet off the floor. But Joe, who will eat anything, and I mean absolutely ANYTHING, totally refused to eat his breakfast off the floor. At this point I snapped. Five weeks of no control over what I can do and when I can do it and I just lost it. At the top of my rather considerable lungs I cussed. “FUCKING DOGS!” I screamed. “FUCK!!! I HATE THIS FUCKING LEG!!!” And promptly burst into a thoroughly ugly cry. My, um… minor fit woke Husband, who came in to see what all the fuss was about, took one look at me sniveling and set about fixing things. While Husband put a full Tigger into her crate and coxed Joe to eat every piece of dog food off the once white carpet, I sat on the scooter stool, stupid green cast hovering off the carpet per doctor’s orders to not let it “bear weight” blubbering. It was not my proudest moment. Nope, I was so pitiful; Husband took me out to breakfast AND then for a jaunt on the not-so-zippy scooters at Target. It doesn’t take much to put a smile on my face these days. Better yet, Husband was good enough to not mention my morning temper tantrum. The embarrassment was fading and actually liked the dogs again. Then, last night as I was getting ready for bed, Husband asked me what ringtone he should set his morning alarm with; “FUCKING DOGS!” or “FUCK! I HATE THIS FUCKING LEG!!!” 49 days since break. 13 days till cast off (I hope) and dignity is restored. Wednesday, I got my 1000-pound splint removed, stitches out and a brand spanking new light bright green fiberglass cast.
Thursday, I went out for lunch with a friend sans Nurse Shrek. Then Thursday night, I went out for a late dinner and to hear a few friends play. Friday, I cleaned off the dinning room table, vacuumed the house by pushing the vacuum in front of the knee scooter, did laundry by butt scooting myself down the stairs to the machines and pulled a large poop covered sandal strap out of Dumb Ass Joseph's ass. Yep. Gross. Picture me, green cast sticking off the back of the knee scooter, wobbly left leg pushing, trying to hold myself steady as I try to grab hold of the wriggling 60pound dork that is Joe Boxer and grab whatever stringy mess hanging out his ass. Joe Boxer, who is by the way terrified of the scooter, was not cooperating in the least with my attempt to remove the protruding thing and proceeded to give a vigorous shake, flapping the poop covered strap about him. And me. Just. Gross. It took some maneuvering, and a hell of a lot of cussing, to get everything out and cleaned up. At which point I quit the day, took a long bath, plopped myself back in my invalid position on the couch. As much as I have been chomping at the bit to do something, anything but sit on the couch, I'm content to just sit with my broken ankle up for the foreseeable future. Why? Well, there's one strap left and I want no part in its removal. Below are some more Broken Ankle pictures. Warning: some are gross. Not as gross as a poop covered strap flapping about Dumb Asses' butt, but pretty gross none the less. You're welcome. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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