So, after the whirlwind of St. Raphael’s, Yale got me checked in around 9pm. My wonderful husband, Dave, headed home, and I thought, “Finally! An end to this exhausting and unbelievably bizarre day. Sweet, sweet sleep awaits!” Oh, how naive I was.
First up: An MRI. Fine, whatever, science. Quick scan, then off to dreamland, right? Wrong! I managed to snag a solid 45 minutes of shut-eye before being rudely awakened by a doctor duo. Apparently, the MRI revealed that my right ankle was, shall we say, “out of alignment.” The fix? An unceremonious unbandaging, a manual reset (think medieval torture procedure), and a whole lot of additional x-rays to make sure the repositioning took, all without the sweet embrace of anesthesia. They did provide a local anesthetic, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a spa treatment.
“Okay,” I thought, summoning my inner optimist. “Surely, NOW I can sleep.” Wrong again! Apparently, the orthopedic gods decided to grace me with their presence post-midnight. I was visited by not *one*, not *two*, but *three* different orthopedists, like some sort of bizarre, bone-themed Ebenezer Scrooge experience.
The first one casually dropped the bombshell that I’d be having surgery on *both* ankles, a detail that hadn’t quite made it into the St. Raphael’s memo. The second, arriving fashionably late an hour later, confirmed the double-ankle surgery situation. And the third? Well, he just signed his initials on my legs and bandages like I was some sort of orthopedic autograph hound. Toss in a couple of vital checks, and you’ve got the recipe for one seriously sleep-deprived patient.
The next morning, I delivered the double-ankle surgery bombshell to Dave. He made the hour-long drive to Yale, arriving just in time to see me before pre-op. My surgeon, a true rockstar, explained everything, answered my questions, and promised to keep Dave in the loop. She also gently informed me that I was looking at 6-10 weeks off my feet, thanks to my “soft bones” (apparently, I’m more marshmallow than marble).
I vaguely remember chatting with the anesthesiologist before they wheeled me into the operating room. To avoid any further ankle drama, they decided to perform the surgery on my gurney, which required some impressive logistical maneuvering. Then, lights out! Six hours later, I woke up with casts, splints, and bandages that made my feet feel like they were encased in cement shoes. Dave stayed for a bit, and then I attempted to settle in for a good night’s sleep.
You guessed it! Another sleepless night. I’d heard horror stories about hospital sleep, but this was my first real test. Around 10pm, one of my roommates (yes, roommates – I was in a *triple* room, which is exactly as delightful as it sounds) started sobbing. Apparently, her pain level was a solid “eleven” on a scale of one to ten. This went on for over an hour until they finally caved and gave her more morphine.
Roommate #2 arrived around 11pm, shortly after Sobbing Susan’s morphine kicked in. She didn’t speak English, and her son, who spoke English and Urdu, was her translator. Apparently, he wanted her to have surgery in Pakistan because it would be cheaper and she had more family there. Yale, however, advised against it, as her bone was practically poking through her skin, and flying might cause it to puncture, leading to a mid-air medical emergency. I know all of this because they had a 90-minute conversation on speakerphone with the translator, doctors, patient, and son. Oh, and did I mention that her son declined all pain meds on her behalf, including Tylenol, because he didn’t believe in them?
Thankfully, my favorite nurse, Allison, swooped in like a sleep-saving superhero. She quietly offered me headphones so I could drown out the speakerphone saga and the renewed sobbing from Roommate #1. I practically hugged her with gratitude. I’d love to say I slept soundly after that, but alas, vital checks and meds kept interrupting.
Monday was a blur of drug-induced naps. Yale has a surprisingly robust movie collection, but since I couldn’t pause, and I’d already learned to expect interruptions, I stuck to old favorites. I also emailed Yale to sing Allison’s praises. Kindness, people, it goes a long way! She made it okay for me to ask for help, which is no small feat with me.
By Tuesday afternoon, they brought me the boot for my left foot. This would allow me to stand and pivot between locations, and finally use a portable commode instead of a bedpan or, even worse, the wand. Dave had been visiting daily, and on Tuesday, my friend Jenn also stopped by after work, full of unnecessary remorse over my predicament since I was helping her when my world went sideways. I reminded her that I can and have fallen more than once in my day, as well as the fact that she was not even outside when I took my dramatic tumble, all of which made her feel better.
Now, for those of you who know me, you know I’m not exactly known for my grace. I’m clumsy. I’ve tripped over air. My history includes several noteworthy trip-and-fall incidents, although this is the first time I’ve actually disabled myself. Even my bathroom attempts during my hospital stay were disastrous, resulting in multiple bedding changes and a whole lot of embarrassment.
So, my first attempt to stand with the boot required a two-person assist and was still incredibly awkward. The boot also added several pounds to my left foot, making it even heavier. But I figured once I mastered standing and pivoting, I could transfer to a wheelchair, and then – voila! Easy mobility. Turns out, I’m just as graceful with a wheelchair as I am on my feet, which is to say, not at all. Stay tuned for the next chapter, where I attempt to navigate the world on wheels (spoiler alert: there will be bumps, literal and figurative).