Ouch, my leg! (the broken ankle blog)

Heather, Meet Heather. August 22, 2006

My physiotherapist is also named Heather.  Apparently naming your daughter after a hardy, mildly poisonous purple shrub from Scotland was a popular pastime in the late 1970’s.  No matter, she’s amazing.  More amazing, though, are the cool physio gadgets she breaks out for my visits.

First, a fun ankle fact:

Most of the time an ankle will only break on one side.  Then, as the broken ankle bones heal, the still-intact ones help hold them up (It’s a little like an Otis Redding song).  Anyway, because my ankle broke on both sides and dislocated there aren’t any tendons/ligaments/nerves/bones/muscles or other sundry body elements whose name I’ve forgotten because I took theatre in University to help shoulder the burden.  To help my body regain its’ former strength, I need a little extra help in the form of electrodes, ultrasound and the deeply cool ice-boot.

The ultrasound doesn’t feel like anything, mostly I enjoy the blue goo that helps to transmit the waves through my skin and into my muscles.  Designed to help increase circulation, the deep sound waves aid tissue regeneration, reduce swelling and encourage the nerves in my ankle to rebuild.  At the start of my physio sessions I had no feeling in the tips of three toes, the top of my foot and the outside of my left leg.  Four weeks in, I’m starting to regain some feeling, although it’s still tingly at times.  Tingling is a good sign, so even though it feels odd, I’m convincing myself it’s awesome.

The electrodes and the ice-boot take a bit more getting used to.  The ice boot is kind of the miracle cure for swelling; or so I’m told the first time they slide it onto my leg.  It’s not bad at first, a little like when my brother and I used to wear inflatable swimming wings on our feet and try to walk on water like Jesus.  (In case you’re wondering, this doesn’t work as well as you’d think.)  Turns out that’s the easy part, because the next step involves filling the boot with ice water, turning on the electrodes and leaving you alone for fifteen minutes with a six-month-old issue of Maclean’s.  The cold is shocking and powerful, I can feel the plate on my fibula cool rapidly and it makes the bone ache.  But, I’ve promised Heather that I’ll suck it up because she’s convinced it’ll help.  Much to my delight, it does.  For the first time since my accident I can see the tendons from my big toe across the top of my foot and I can almost picture myself wearing a strappy sandal.  Almost.

The Cripple Wants Prada July 25, 2006

Watched The Devil Wears Prada last week. A decent movie; with a more focused plot structure than the book and strong performances by… Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I only went to watch the shoes.

Ten weeks ago, I was the goddess of heels. There was no stem too high, no strap too thin, no pattern too gaudy. I wore them all; loved them all. And oh God, I miss them!

I miss wearing two of them at the same time. I miss my sky-high heels; my ankle-strap sandals, my trashy boots, my impossible stilettos, my wedges, my Mary Janes, my leopard print d’Orsays and my silver rhinestone “Carrie Bradshaw had hers stolen on an episode of SATC” Manolo Blahnik knockoffs. I miss being 3-4-5 inches taller and strutting down the street, pretending I’m Gisele and the whole sidewalk is my catwalk, baby. I miss comments from middle-aged ladies at the grocery store asking “How do you walk in those?”, where I’d smile brightly and launch into a three-minute explanation of how to properly distribute your weight over your heel and toe and to make sure that your centre of gravity is over your hips so you don’t fall forward as you step. I miss watching the “this girl is insane” look creep slowly over their faces as they’d try to back away thinking that I was just going to answer their question with something flip like “Practice!”

I started physiotherapy last week, and I’m not afraid to admit that I arrived at my appointment and told my therapist that I’d like to be wearing my very favourite high heels for my office Christmas party in December.  She agreed that it’s a good goal to have, so I’m already feeling better about things.  In the interim, I’m sure she’s more interested in some of the more paltry details like learning to walk again without seeming like an extra in a Romero movie, but as long as we keep the end goal in mind, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.

Exuent Dr. McToogoodforpatients July 17, 2006

Dr. McSurgery, whom I adore, was out of town with a family emergency on the day of my most recent follow-up appointment. His replacement was young, not as cute and certainly lacking in anything remotely resembling bedside manner. After a 2 ½ hour wait (yes, they’re busy, I understand), we were called into the clinic and assigned to a bed where we waited for 18 minutes while the replacement doctor transcribed notes into his telephone without acknowledging us. Now I can understand that if he were facing away, but we were literally sitting about two feet away from him. Not a good start.

When he finally called my name he brought up my x-rays, noted the bones had healed and asked me to remove my aircast boot. The time it took for me to do this was the longest period of time we spent interacting. He briefly fondled my leg (not really touching it, more of a soft petting), where he declared me healed and tried to herd me out the door. If this were a Southern Baptist Revival, I’d have paid my tithe, sung some gospel and headed outside for some barbecue. But the Heather who can hardly stand, let alone imagine walking wasn’t up for it. I called him out and said that my regular surgeon recommended I’d go in for physiotherapy, that he’d said it was a very bad break and I’d need several months of work before I’d be relatively back to normal. Together with my Mom (twin powers activate!) we gave him one of “those” stares reserved for misbehaving pets or when it’s discovered that Dad ate all the Ritz crackers again. It’s deadly.

Dr. McToogoodforpatients relented and gave me a prescription for physiotherapy with the comment of “Now that I’ve had a second look [Really? When you were looking at your shoes, or at the Nurse in the doorway?], I think you really will need more work, uh, let me get this prescription done.” We left shortly after, and I must note that I’ve never crutched faster in my life. Anger is an excellent motivator.

EDITED TO ADD: I hobbled into (ran into doesn’t really work under these circumstances) Dr. McSurgery at the airport this week while waiting for Dad’s flight. I told him I’d made a follow up appointment to see him after my bad experience with his replacement, and we spent about 10 minutes discussing my concerns. Yes, he agreed that I’d definitely need several months of physiotherapy, plus additional follow-up appointments. We talked about managing pain, controlling swelling and how to ease myself into going without the aircast some days. It was one of those great kismet moments, and I’ve never been happier to have to pick Dad up at the airport. Even if he has been known to eat all the crackers and then try to blame it on me (Yes, this actually happened).