Recuperation after my recent fall is slow and steady — and considering my own limited patience and the inconvenience to la familia, it’s proving something of an ordeal.
I’m the proud permanent owner of six screws* and something call an “L-bracket”; Dr. Cheema (the orthopedist) tells me that my leg was so messed up, the ER doctor turned the initial relocation of the joint over to the specialists. And Nancy reports that it took three doctors to shift it back into place. (The doctor sent her down the hall so she wouldn’t hear my loud protests, of which I thankfully have no recollection.)
By contrast, I actually recall the OR the next morning, since the anesthesiologist relied primarily on an epidural and fairly light sedation. That meant I woke up for the last stages of the surgery, which featured a soundtrack by Meatloaf and some noisy banter by the surgical team: more reminiscent of a garage than my notion of an operating room.
I’ve graduated from the walker to a pair of crutches, which Nancy tells me takes about 40 years off my age. It’s a much more convenient way of getting around, but kind of precarious; trying to get out the door this morning, I nearly slipped on the wet deck and quickly gave up on any travel plans.
Get me out of here!
*Addendum: After going to the hospital for X-rays, I learned I actually have nine screws in there.