The Great Ankle Break of 2016

Three days before Christmas, I underwent shoulder surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff muscle and degenerating tendons.

“I thought this was a story about an ankle break?” I hear you ask…

Hold on, I’m getting there.

Confined to an immobilizer —the sling version of the back brace I donned five years ago after my herniated disc repair— I was limited in what I could do and learning how to perform daily activities with my left hand.

When a record busting 36-hour snowstorm enveloped the DC metro area, I cheered. I baked. The kids shoveled. I drank wine. We watched ten movies, and I completed a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle.  But then school was canceled for a gazillion days. The pretty white snow started to gray, and the unmelted volume interfered with life returning to normal.

On January 28th, one week after the region collectively buckled down for the storm, I dressed to leave my house. I had a physical therapy appointment for my shoulder, which I was looking forward to after a week of confinement. Metro was still unpredictable, but my ex-husband was venturing to work that morning, and his office is conveniently located across the street from my PT. I begged for a ride.

Traffic was ghastly. After an hour in the car, sitting in gridlock four blocks from my destination, I made a tactical error. “I can walk faster,” I insisted, not wanting to be late. My ex agreed. I hopped out of the car, climbed a snowbank, landed on the sidewalk. Literally. Splat.

I was in shock for a lot of what happened next. I remember hearing screams as if they were coming from elsewhere. My vision went a cloudy white. Excruciating pain radiated from the ankle, which I’d seen contort on my way down. The shoulder was fine, but I knew without trying that I couldn’t stand on my right foot. A homeless woman asked if she should call someone for me. I grasped for my phone, but like in a dream when you can’t ever dial a phone number correctly, I couldn’t remember how to work it. After several bumbles, I managed to call my ex, who had only advanced a few car lengths up the street. He pulled into a snowbank and ran to scene of the fall.

He tried to help me up. I wailed. Cautiously, he got me standing on my left foot. Since I couldn’t drape my right arm over his shoulder three-legged race style, our center of balance was off as we hopped a few tentative steps.

“I’ll drive you to the ER,” he reassured me, until we reached the street corner and realized his car sat on the other side of an impassable patch of ice and snow. We called 911.

The ambulance led to the emergency room. The emergency room led to three sets of x-rays and two ankle reductions —a process by which two-to-three doctors push and pull on your ankle to “set” the broken bones. (Yes, there was morphine.) Those procedures led to four hours of reconstructive surgery the next day. Overall, I spent five days in the hospital.

I’m home now, completely non-weight bearing on the right side of my body. I can’t use crutches because of the healing rotator cuff, so a wheelchair is my mode of transport. I’m confined to the first floor of my house since I have no way to go up or down the stairs. My living room has been converted to part bedroom/bathroom, as ADA compliant as possible.

A side note: never buy a house without a first floor bathroom.

From the moment of my accident, friends and family jumped to action. While I was still in the hospital, my sister friends set up my house, organized around the clock care, bought me books and wide-legged yoga pants, stocked my refrigerator, fed my cats, and created a meal calendar. My beloved Weekend Warriors scheduled an impromptu visit to complete tasks around the house to make my life easier. My dad arranged transportation to follow up doctor visits and rented wheelchair ramps to get me in and out of the house.

The prognosis is to be determined. The rotator cuff repair requires four-to-six months, minimum, before I’m back to normal. My ankle surgeon said I have at least two more months to go before I can put weight on my foot. (I thank yoga and barre for giving me a strong core; the left side of my body is doing all the heavy lifting these days.) I learned to transition with ease from bed to wheelchair and back. I’m putting the lap in laptop because there’s no FMLA when you work for yourself. Like it or not, sponge baths have to be my jam for the time being. For all who have offered advice on pain management, I thank you. With the consult of my doctor, I have figured out a regiment that works.

Healing is my focus. I won’t jeopardize recovery of the ankle or the shoulder by rushing the process. As deductibles, co-pays and other medical expenses mount, I won’t panic; top medical care is not worth skimping on, as I now realize after bumping down from a gold health plan to silver, effective 01/01/16.

Thanks to all who have sent healing vibes, prayers, meals, hugs and other forms of support. My heart overflows with your love and warm thoughts. I’m mostly in good spirits, but I slip into inevitable moments of self pity. There are lessons to be gleaned from all of this, lessons I will take to heart.

And when it’s all over, maybe I’ll commemorate the Great Fall of 2016 with a tattoo over the scars that will forever remind me wedge boots are never a good idea in the snow and ice.



on growing things

People, I planted stuff.

And five hours later, everything looks happy still. If plants can look perky, then yes indeed, that is the word I’d use to describe them. What started as a Weekend Warriors project in April has morphed into a new obsession.

I can’t and won’t let the hard work of my devoted friends be for naught.

I had not done much in the yard since my home improvement day except water. And trust me, that endeavor represented a huge outdoor commitment on my part.

Then Lola had to be put down, kids were crying, and I was my own little emotional mess when it hit me.

“Mom, can we go to the pool!” Jack asked on our tear-filled Friday afternoon.

“No,” I replied more curtly than I meant to. “I need some time alone.”

And I went outside.

I started pulling ivy. And weeds. And more ivy, maybe some of it of the poisonous variety. (I know what it’s supposed to look like but part of the evil plant’s power over me renders me unable to identify it when I’m actually among it.) It felt good to just mindlessly pull trails of ivy out of the ground. I suddenly knew what I wanted to do over the weekend.

Saturday turned out to be more of a prep day as between an extra long little league game and visits with friends who wanted to drink to Lola’s long life, I ended up not being able to spend as much time in the yard as I’d planned.

(By the way, when my time comes, I hope you all toast me as robustly as you toasted my cat.)

Sunday I woke up with the birds. Grabbed the book on my nightstand before remembering I had work to do and an entire day to do it. I started with the front yard. I pulled hostas that needed dividing. I reorganized some plants that weren’t getting the sun they needed. And I ended up planting this new flower bed. A Fothergilla anchors the bed, an Abelia taking up the rear, with transplanted hostas lining the brick border that was already in the dirt, just covered by years of neglect.

(Oh, and I pulled out all the ivy and pokeberry weeds that had been the tenants of this space until today.)

I performed lots of other gardenly tasks but this bed was my coup d’état, and five hours later, my back was achy but my heart was filled with pride at how I suddenly converted my black thumb into one of green. It felt good to bring life to my yard after a few days of thinking only of death.

And so here I sit with a crisp Rosé while the kids read (what else?) and I’m planning the next project.

All bets will be off when temperatures hit three digits but for now, I’m enjoying my newfound hobby.