Thank you, Jes and Sue (Jesmcd2 and jimeka) for asking how it goes. I haven't posted an update, so here tis.The open ankle wound is obviously going to do what it's going to do. The UVA second opinion/consultation was good news and bad news: no surgery is necessary now, though maybe in another 6 months, there will be another answer. For now, just continue with what I am doing (dressing the open wound with silver ointment, bandage, followed by a struggle to put a compression stocking on the leg to reduce edema). And by the way, be sure to go to the emergency room if I start
a fever. Apparently I failed to carefully read the manual on aging,
especially the chapters dealing with broken ankles and recovery. Had I
paid closer attention, I would have learned that healing broken bones
and open wounds in the aging body takes a very, very long time. So I continue
to do as I am told, deal with the the moments when my ankle speaks loudly to me
and clomp about my day. The most damage done has been to my
confidence. My ego is fine with walking slowly with a limp, and my
tolerance for pain and discomfort has always been high (thank goodness
because it is a constant presence) but my confidence is shaken.
MS caused foot drop, which means I walk toes down
first, making me prone to tripping. MS has also affected my balance.
Together, this is a bad combination, a variation of the old one-two.
The other day, while Matt was here working on making two high garden beds (because I am loathe to get down on hands and knees like I was once able to), I was raking leaves, (which have been lying on what passes for a lawn since I fell in September)
tripped on a root or stone, and fell onto my hands and knees. Only my
confidence was bruised so I didn't need to call Matt to help me (in
truth, I don't think he noticed). But because communication between my
brain and those far away attachments (my legs) is full of static, It
took me a few attempts to figure out how to get up from my position.
Oddly, this is no longer an automatic process. Formerly, in my youth,
when I fell, I would get up. Now, when I fall, a
cognitive, step by step process is required; which my brain has to work out a
puzzle: in essence, "okay, she's down and wants to get up; let's see
how to do this: let's try moving the left knee forward a bit. No, not
that much; back a little, OK, that's about right. Now, put each hand
out in front of you, directly under your shoulders. Oh, the ground
isn't level there? OK, move a little to your right. Let's try this
again. Don't worry about the right ankle, you won't be using it until
you are on your feet again." All the while, the right ankle is interrupting: " remember me? Hey, remember me? I'm here. Don't forget about me.!!!"Then, finally in position, I can push off and rise to my feet, dust myself off, locate and pick up the rake and
resume raking.
Inner dialogues like this run constantly, accompanying
me through each day as I go about all the little tasks that give
meaning to my life. I have learned that I am less likely to stumble
and fall and more likely to remain upright if I remain conscious of my
limitations and proactively problem solve. For instance, I have a flat
nursery wagon on the porch. I take it down the ramp and unload
groceries or feed sacks from the trunk of the car onto it, then take
the load to the house or the shed. At the shed, I have a sturdy flat
saucer with a tow rope attached; there I need only to transfer a 50#
sack from the wagon bed to the saucer, go up the steps into the shed
and drag the sled up the ramp. Voila, done! Chicken feed is now in the shed.
At the house, the wagon can go right into the kitchen and be unloaded
there. And should a heavy parcel need to come to the house from the
gate, again the wagon is the vehicle to use. As the little girl once
said to a librarian who presented her with a stack of books in which
to do research, "this is more about penguins than I want to know", so
I apologize for describing the minutiae of my life.
I do get depressed a bit, and when I am silent, it's because I don't want to whine. I am doing fine, just impatient for this particular learning experience to be in the past.