I arrived at ER and was immediately sent to x-ray. (I know! I've found the only emergency room in North America where there's not a five-hour wait. It's Highline Medical Center, just south of Seattle. Ssshhh. Don't tell anybody!)
"You really did a number on yourself," the doc said. "Were you hang-gliding or parachuting?" She estimated three breaks. I was admitted, and surgery was scheduled for the next morning. Based on the x-ray, the orthopedic surgeon estimated I'd be in surgery for just over an hour.
Five hours later, I was waking up in recovery. "Congratulations," the surgeon said. "You have the distinction of having the most complicated repair I've done in 27 years of practice."
Yes! I win!
My little slip-and-fall wasn't a break. It was a shatter. Plates, pins, wires...I'm freakin' bionic now!
But no weight AT ALL on that foot, not for six weeks. I began to grow. I became expert at doing stairs on one knee and two hands -- too heavy to lift myself going backwards on puny girl arms.
Then came the boot. And I grew a little more.
Then came Physical Therapy. One week. Still on crutches. Two weeks, three weeks...still back and forth, boot, crutches, boot. I wasn't getting any better.
PT was a bust. And I kept getting bigger.
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