WELCOME TO THE CIRCUS: ANKLE EDITION! 🎪🦴
Thirteen days ago, I fell while crossing my bedroom to get into bed. Because apparently, walking 15 feet in your own home is now an extreme sport.
Unfortunately, I fell BACKWARD and landed on my ankle. I knew it was bad as we headed to the ER, but I had absolutely no idea just how much of a shitshow this was about to become.
Welcome to Columbus Day Weekend, where nothing says holiday fun like a trip to the Emergency Room!
I was told I had several fractures and needed an orthopedic specialist. Great! Except it was a holiday, nobody was available, and apparently broken ankles observe federal holidays.
I spent the next 24 hours in bed, on pain meds, compiling a list of orthopedic specialists and making what felt like 8,000 phone calls. The calls were exhausting, primarily because of the automated systems and their robot overlords. If I wanted to scream, “I NEED A HUMAN BEING!” into the void for the rest of my life, I could have done that from home.
Finally, on Wednesday, I got an appointment with a PA on my list at Brigham/Mass General. I live outside Boston. Why settle for anything but the best when your ankle is auditioning for a complete structural collapse?
Thus began the long drive to a strange-to-us office in Brookline, followed by the walk from the parking garage to the elevator using my mother’s ancient walker.
I have never wanted a life raft so badly.
After all the drama, I learned I had THREE complex fractures involving my fibula, tibia, and the mysterious bone in the back of my ankle whose name I can never remember. Basically, the entire architecture of my ankle had gone to hell, and I was clamped in what felt like a bear trap.
The verdict? Surgery. The following Monday. Once the swelling went down.
Because, naturally, I have complete control over swelling. I simply hadn’t gotten around to scheduling it.
I’d never had surgery on bones before, and I cannot adequately describe how frightened I was at the prospect of plates and screws being installed in my ankle. I mean, I’m all for home improvements, but this seemed a little excessive.
After several miserable days, including ANOTHER FALL in the bathroom while brushing my teeth (because apparently one fall was not enough to qualify for the frequent-faller rewards program), I had to accept that this wasn’t going away on its own.
I keep waking up and, for a few blissful moments, forgetting that everything has changed. Then reality smacks me in the face: my independence has packed its bags and left town, and it has no plans to return anytime soon.
This has been hard on everyone.
Tim is in his own head, trying to figure out how to manage life while suddenly being in charge of All Things Barbara. A job he did not apply for, receive training for, or apparently want to discuss with Human Resources.
Bridget has her own struggles. My cancer years, when she was a little girl watching me spend endless stretches in bed recovering from chemotherapy and surgeries, left their mark. This has understandably brought back some difficult memories for her, and she is really shaken by it.
So, yes, there have been some tears, some frustration, and some very real adjustments happening around here. Humor is doing a lot of heavy lifting, as usual.
FINALLY, SURGERY DAY ARRIVED!
Friends mobilized to get me a knee scooter and wheelchair, and I have my mother’s old shower chair. Apparently, we are now operating a very well-equipped geriatric rental facility.
I loved having an all-female medical team, including a surgeon from my carefully curated short list. I do love a woman who knows her way around a bone.
The surgery went about as well as we could have hoped. And here’s the kicker: they discovered that a nerve was trapped in one of the fractures, which explained a good deal of my pain.
The solution involved a rod and enough screws to make my ankle eligible for its own Home Depot account. My orthopedic surgeon essentially had to cobble the whole thing back together.
The nerve block, which lasted about 24 glorious hours, was HEAVEN. And despite my cardiac issues, I was allowed to go home.
YAY ME! 🥳
And now? Welcome to the glamorous recovery phase, where I spend most of my time in bed elevating, icing, and medicating myself while my minions—I mean, Tim and Bridget—attempt to salvage what’s left of my dwindling mood and nonexistent independence.
It’s a full-time job. The pay is terrible, and the patient is cranky.
Later in the week, I managed to have a visitor or two. Bill came to help Tim with winterizing the house and getting our kayaks off the beach. Lucky Bill! He got to do outdoor chores instead of watching me practice my death stare from bed.
It was good for Tim to have some male companionship and someone to talk to about me.
Because apparently, I am the main topic of conversation around here.
Honestly, I can’t imagine why.
Bridget has been spending afternoons with me, with her dog along so she doesn’t feel left out. Unfortunately, she seems to have developed an injury of her own and needed a trip to doggy urgent care for pain and anti-inflammatory medication.
At this point, I’m beginning to suspect that my family is participating in a group medical event.
At least we’re consistent!
Our neighbors have been wonderful, dropping off treats and sweets. Which is incredibly kind, although perhaps not ideal for someone whose current exercise routine consists of moving from the bed to the bathroom and back.
I’m going to emerge from this with a rebuilt ankle and a muffin top.
I am aiming for a shower today, and THE SUN IS OUT! 🌞
Small victories, people. We celebrate what we can.
I won’t make it to my beloved Runway for Recovery show next week, which breaks my heart, but I will absolutely be there in spirit. I reached my fundraising goal, thanks to so many generous people, and that means a great deal to me. ❤️
So, what’s next?
No weight bearing for a good long while. A postoperative appointment in two weeks. Maybe a nice shiny boot down the road. Then physical therapy, followed by what I hope will be a gradual return to normal life.
Maybe I’ll be back by Christmas!
A girl can dream. And apparently, a girl can also have her ankle rebuilt with enough hardware to qualify as a small construction project.
For now, I’m learning to accept help, tolerate dependence, and remind myself that this is temporary—even when it feels like forever.
I have a long way to go, but I’m getting there. One day, one tiny victory, and one appropriately sarcastic comment at a time.
Thank you to everyone who has checked in, helped out, dropped off food, supplied mobility equipment, or simply made me laugh. You have no idea how much it means.
Sending love from the circus!
Barbara and the Gang 🎪❤️
P.S. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in bed. Elevating. Icing. Medicated. And accepting applications for a new ankle.
