Part 1: In which I admit lying about part numbering
Let's rewind about 5 years to set the scene:
I'm running along, minding my own (and only a few other people's, I swear!) business, playing soccer with my friends about three times a week, when out of nowhere Tiger Woods shoots me in the heel with a golf ball. And it was a long drive. That ball had some speed on it. (Dude is *accurate*.) I'm laying on the soccer field, looking around for Tiger or his ball or his caddy or something else to blame that "thwock" sound on, but it turns out that's what rupturing an Achilles tendon sounds and feels like. Good thing Tiger isn't an archer or I'd be dead! (Mythological reference of the day? Check.)
Then there's this bizarre concavity where there used to be a hard, ropy bit just above my left heel, and I forget how to walk even though all the load-bearing parts are intact. It doesn’t actually hurt all that bad; it’s more surprising and mentally troubling than physically painful. (Once again, YMMV. Others mention the “windowshade effect” on their calf muscle (fwap-fwap-fwap), which I did not get.)
At the hospital, I write “ruptured L Achilles tendon” on the admittance form ‘cuz this is before I learn that doctors hate it when you self-diagnose. (You’re supposed to write “I got an ouchy somewhere around my left ankle.”) Hours later when the specialist gets there, he performs the Thompson test, which is a fancy medical term for squeezing my calf and not seeing any response in my foot, at which point he says, “You’ve ruptured your Achilles tendon.” Thanks for joining in, Dr. Obvious. I draw his attention to my admittance form, to which his response is, “Well, then, what did you need me for?” (Um, helloooo? Just ‘cuz I know what it is doesn’t mean I know what to do about it.)
He can’t do anything about it right then either, so he wraps me up and sends me home with an appointment to meet Dr. John Parker. (I always think about “Buckaroo Banzai” when I hear his name.) Doc Parker turns out to be the chief of orthopedic surgery (and a guy that I will get to know far too much in the next few years). A week later I’ve got a Valium drip going and the doc is almost pulling me off the operating table trying to yank my calf muscle far enough down to reattach it to my heel bone. Yet another in my unfortunate series of more-disturbing-than-painful feelings (although I’m sure it would’ve hurt a LOT if it weren’t for the panoply of drugs I was on). A few dozen stitches with the fattest sutures they got and a nice, big, Frankenstein-style scar hidden under a cast for a few weeks were the easy parts.
Did I forget to mention that I had scheduled a vacation flight to San Diego for the next day and my (indoor-only) cat Tweak escaped the day before? Oh, and I’m not allowed to drink while taking these drugs (Norco tabs == double Vicodin (yum)); at least, that’s what I thought at the time, before I learned that the reason the medical establishment doesn’t want you drinking on Norco is that the combo-meal doubles the effectiveness of both ingredients, a.k.a. AWESOME! (Disclaimer: if you do this, you will be admitting that you are taking medical advice from someone who has very clearly spelled out in this journal how much he does *not* know how to take care of himself; i.e. you are a dumb-ass.)
I won’t usually be mentioning Laura in these entries because she does not like to have the details of her life shared for the world to see, but you’d have to be a flying rodent doing its best Stevie Wonder imitation not to see how much stress all of this is dumping on her. And remember, this is the first of five. :-(
So we put up some “missing cat” posters and went on a limping vacation. (When they repair an Achilles, they have to point your toe to shorten the tendon in back, so you get a high-heeled cast. I wish I’d known this ahead of time, so I could’ve bought myself a size-10 pair of wedges of the appropriate height and practiced walking in heels first. Oh, the skills you never think you’ll need…) Luckily this was planned to be a mellow trip, and a couple days after we returned a neighbor called to say that she had spotted Tweak, lured him with food (the mighty hunter had no idea how to dine al fresco), and reeled him in.
So, anyway, the not-easy part:
At the time, we were living in a 3-story condo and navigating the stairs was quite the hassle. The safest way was just to skip using my left leg at all and hop around, but I mostly spent all my time on the top floor where the bedroom and the office were. (I work from home. This is just one of the many times I’ve been grateful for that.)
But the real pain was after the cast was removed. Try keeping your toes pointed for a few weeks straight and you’ll find out that your calf decides that’s normal and shrinks. Not just muscle atrophy, it adjusts to a new length. Combined with the fact that mine started out shorter due to the rupture and the need to overlap the busted ends of the tendon a bit to stitch them back together and I’m still up “en pointe” après cast. Every time I take a step and my foot attempts to flatten out, it feels like my calf is playing the part of the girlfriend in “The Hitcher”. (For those of you not familiar with that film, insert “drawn and quartered” for the previous clause. (Well, “drawn and singled” I guess, since only one limb is involved.))
That’s solved by simply working on it (i.e. intentionally doing the painful thing over and over) and some physical therapy. I really like PTs; they’re like combined masseuses and personal trainers with excellent anatomical knowledge and plenty of patience and positivity.
Next up: Different surgery, same location.
I'm running along, minding my own (and only a few other people's, I swear!) business, playing soccer with my friends about three times a week, when out of nowhere Tiger Woods shoots me in the heel with a golf ball. And it was a long drive. That ball had some speed on it. (Dude is *accurate*.) I'm laying on the soccer field, looking around for Tiger or his ball or his caddy or something else to blame that "thwock" sound on, but it turns out that's what rupturing an Achilles tendon sounds and feels like. Good thing Tiger isn't an archer or I'd be dead! (Mythological reference of the day? Check.)
Then there's this bizarre concavity where there used to be a hard, ropy bit just above my left heel, and I forget how to walk even though all the load-bearing parts are intact. It doesn’t actually hurt all that bad; it’s more surprising and mentally troubling than physically painful. (Once again, YMMV. Others mention the “windowshade effect” on their calf muscle (fwap-fwap-fwap), which I did not get.)
At the hospital, I write “ruptured L Achilles tendon” on the admittance form ‘cuz this is before I learn that doctors hate it when you self-diagnose. (You’re supposed to write “I got an ouchy somewhere around my left ankle.”) Hours later when the specialist gets there, he performs the Thompson test, which is a fancy medical term for squeezing my calf and not seeing any response in my foot, at which point he says, “You’ve ruptured your Achilles tendon.” Thanks for joining in, Dr. Obvious. I draw his attention to my admittance form, to which his response is, “Well, then, what did you need me for?” (Um, helloooo? Just ‘cuz I know what it is doesn’t mean I know what to do about it.)
He can’t do anything about it right then either, so he wraps me up and sends me home with an appointment to meet Dr. John Parker. (I always think about “Buckaroo Banzai” when I hear his name.) Doc Parker turns out to be the chief of orthopedic surgery (and a guy that I will get to know far too much in the next few years). A week later I’ve got a Valium drip going and the doc is almost pulling me off the operating table trying to yank my calf muscle far enough down to reattach it to my heel bone. Yet another in my unfortunate series of more-disturbing-than-painful feelings (although I’m sure it would’ve hurt a LOT if it weren’t for the panoply of drugs I was on). A few dozen stitches with the fattest sutures they got and a nice, big, Frankenstein-style scar hidden under a cast for a few weeks were the easy parts.
Did I forget to mention that I had scheduled a vacation flight to San Diego for the next day and my (indoor-only) cat Tweak escaped the day before? Oh, and I’m not allowed to drink while taking these drugs (Norco tabs == double Vicodin (yum)); at least, that’s what I thought at the time, before I learned that the reason the medical establishment doesn’t want you drinking on Norco is that the combo-meal doubles the effectiveness of both ingredients, a.k.a. AWESOME! (Disclaimer: if you do this, you will be admitting that you are taking medical advice from someone who has very clearly spelled out in this journal how much he does *not* know how to take care of himself; i.e. you are a dumb-ass.)
I won’t usually be mentioning Laura in these entries because she does not like to have the details of her life shared for the world to see, but you’d have to be a flying rodent doing its best Stevie Wonder imitation not to see how much stress all of this is dumping on her. And remember, this is the first of five. :-(
So we put up some “missing cat” posters and went on a limping vacation. (When they repair an Achilles, they have to point your toe to shorten the tendon in back, so you get a high-heeled cast. I wish I’d known this ahead of time, so I could’ve bought myself a size-10 pair of wedges of the appropriate height and practiced walking in heels first. Oh, the skills you never think you’ll need…) Luckily this was planned to be a mellow trip, and a couple days after we returned a neighbor called to say that she had spotted Tweak, lured him with food (the mighty hunter had no idea how to dine al fresco), and reeled him in.
So, anyway, the not-easy part:
At the time, we were living in a 3-story condo and navigating the stairs was quite the hassle. The safest way was just to skip using my left leg at all and hop around, but I mostly spent all my time on the top floor where the bedroom and the office were. (I work from home. This is just one of the many times I’ve been grateful for that.)
But the real pain was after the cast was removed. Try keeping your toes pointed for a few weeks straight and you’ll find out that your calf decides that’s normal and shrinks. Not just muscle atrophy, it adjusts to a new length. Combined with the fact that mine started out shorter due to the rupture and the need to overlap the busted ends of the tendon a bit to stitch them back together and I’m still up “en pointe” après cast. Every time I take a step and my foot attempts to flatten out, it feels like my calf is playing the part of the girlfriend in “The Hitcher”. (For those of you not familiar with that film, insert “drawn and quartered” for the previous clause. (Well, “drawn and singled” I guess, since only one limb is involved.))
That’s solved by simply working on it (i.e. intentionally doing the painful thing over and over) and some physical therapy. I really like PTs; they’re like combined masseuses and personal trainers with excellent anatomical knowledge and plenty of patience and positivity.
Next up: Different surgery, same location.