Those of you reading my stories “on the regular” have become well aware of the surfeit of trials and tribulations with which I am faced each and every day. Be they falls, pin site infections, peculiar odors, or appetite infractions, nothing comes as a surprise – and danger is but a heartbeat away at every moment!
Today marks one of the most difficult of trials that I have yet faced: Laundry.
I have been fortunate enough to discover a local laundromat that will not only pick up my dirty clothes and bring them back again hours later, but will in fact clean them in the period between! While excellent, however, this means that I must brave half the day pants-less. Yes; without pants. As you’ll already know, should you have chanced to read my post mentioning such, I own but two three (thanks, Alison!) pair of pants that will fit over my extravagant metal leg. Life being what it is, this means that both will generally become soiled, in some way, at the same time. There are days when I choose to wear my sweatpants. There are others when rip-aways seem more appropriate. And when I must venture out of doors, in these cold winter months, I many times choose both!
And so, it is with very little shame whatsoever that I heartily recommend the Zhen Wei Laundromat, Inc., should you ever find yourself in the need of laundry services in and around Jackson Heights, NY. Their service has been quick (clothes picked up an hour after I called) and reliable (I made a list of my laundry bag contents and counted socks on its return!).
To top it off, everything was folded impeccably. Now this may seem a minor point, but consider this: I may choose to ignore the fact, but I might easily be labeled a middle-aged man. And I have been washing my own clothes quite regularly for many years. This means I have a great deal of experience and general laundry-related know-how. Add to this that I learned from an expert (my mom, mother of 5 and laundress of many a pile), and you will see that I could easily open the Jon Wei Laundromat, Inc. and earn quite a comfortable living. However, no matter how many stains I have personally lifted, no matter how many shirt collars I’ve scrubbed, to this day I have never mastered the Folding of the Fitted Sheet. Try as I might, that thing never comes out right! But when my sheets came back from the laundromat washed and dried, and folded so tightly they might have just been pulled new from their packaging,… well, I was duly impressed, to say the least.
So here’s to you, Zhen Wei Laundromat! You came through when I was in need. And for that, I salute you.
I am often asked to more accurately describe the pain that comes with this surgical procedure, and with bearing the Taylor Spatial Frame, in some way that effectively conveys the suffering inflicted upon one of its victims er, recipients. Perhaps it stems from a somewhat morbid curiosity, but it seems that people in general do genuinely want to understand how it feels and what I am experiencing on a daily basis. However, I must admit it has been difficult to accurately describe. For instance, there isn’t always a sharp pain in one spot, or even a general throbbing throughout my lower leg. It’s more of a low level discomfort that builds up very very slowly over hours in the smallest cells of my marrow until I suddenly discover that it has become a part of me. Something so central to my very being that, at first, it is indistinguishable from a thought, or a hunger, or the gentle drawing of breath into the lungs. It becomes a part of life itself, until recognizing it as something alien that should NOT BE THERE actually takes effort. In any case, here is my best effort to date to describe its effect:
I haven’t collapsed in a jumble – to the floor or sofa or bed or whatever approximately horizontal surface is immediately available – for a gut-wrenching schoolgirlesque sob in many a year, if ever! You know the type, I think – that uncontrollable weeping when all hope and everything that is good has been ripped away, and your soul lain bare before the flames and the darkness. Truly uncontrollable. A cry of anguish which isn’t brought forth in an effort to cleanse, but which rather bursts from your heart and lungs with a will of its own. If you’re a man, you’ve never done this, and you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know I’ve never cried before! A long time ago I was lucky enough to witness what I considered to be a very good actor/singer play the part of Rodolfo in Puccini’s opera La Bohème. I won’t go into the whole story, but let’s just say that Rodolfo really loves Mimi. And when [SPOILER!] Mimi dies at the end of Act IV, and the pitiable poet cries out her name in his torment, all that he loves and lives for suddenly gone… well, then you know what I mean.
I go about my days mostly oblivious to real pain. Getting about is cumbersome. Carrying anything more than a few feet is difficult. Cleaning pins and rods has become less novel and more annoying. Changing kitty litter takes a lot of effort, and cooking is still beyond me. Just waking, dressing, bed making, and cat feeding seems to take a couple of hours, at least, never mind my own breakfast. TV watching and web surfing are my easiest tasks, next to napping on the couch. But when I stop to find myself stumbling down the hallway towards the kitchen, seemingly making another trip to the fridge, the clarity of thought driven from my mind some time ago, and Rodolfo’s Wail begins pushing into the present, THEN…… then, I know I have neglected the Percocet for too long. So that, gentle readers, is how the pain sneaks up. When I stop what I’m doing and feel like crying; when I simply cannot continue any longer, even if all I’m doing at present is watching another round of Family Feud; that’s when I know. It may take a moment or two, but it does hit me. I’m not depressed. I’m not sad or upset. But the breaking point has been reached, and my pills are the cure.
I’ve stared at this contraption so many times, and for so long, that it’s easy to forget that you, gentle reader, aren’t as familiar with it as I am! This post is purposefully short on words and long(er) on the photos. Nine photos, in fact. One for each pin or rod sticking into my leg! Keep clicking on a picture until it’s nice and big.
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- TSF from the side
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- from the side
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- full frame from the side
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- Showerless
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- TSF hardware closeup
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- standing, headless
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- A View of a Leg
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- from the front
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- Up Close and Personal
If I weren’t so incredibly sane, I might suspect I’m turning into a cat!
Yes, you read that right. And no, I’m not kidding. Perhaps it’s because two young kittens are my only and constant companions these lonely weeks, fondly rubbing against my legs (well, just against the good one – they’ve learned to avoid the sharp, angular metal leg) whenever they sense my waxing pain. Strangely those caresses do coordinate well with mealtimes for some reason…
In any case, the evidence is overwhelming. Consider this:
Lately, my night life (staying up to watch TV sounds more exciting that way) has extended well into the wee morning hours. Last night, or this morning rather, is a perfect example. Normally the TV is off by 10 PM, and me to slumber by 11 or so. Exciting? Hardly. But 7 hours of sleep used to feel pretty darn good. Last night found me watching poor Jay Leno’s show at 10 PM, followed by the late local news at 11. I commiserated with Conan for an hour from 11:30 to 12:30, then briefly considered bed.
Let’s make that barely considered bed. I don’t know how late you all stay up, gentle readers, but I changed channels to sit in on Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show between 12:30 and 1:30, something I enjoy immensely but could hardly justify under normal circumstances. Ferguson is very funny, so I was raring to go at 1:30 AM. Which brings us, of course, to Comics Unleashed hosted by Byron Allen. That show may not have so many fans, but I barely had to think to type it out, so familiar I’ve become with late night television.
You would think I’d have gone to bed at that point, but beginning at 2:30 in the morning, some very interesting infomercials begin to air. It was well into the engrossing description of some spinal decompression device that I finally stumbled off to sleep.
And yet here I am at 6:49, writing more rubbish for the good ol’ legblog. I barely feel tired! That’s because I’ve finally discovered the cat nap. And that’s why, after perhaps 3 hours of restless sleep, I awoke to feed 2 hungry kittens at 6 AM. But don’t worry for me. My day should progress much like the others this past week. I already plan to curl up on the couch at around 9 for a couple hours of shuteye. Then I’ll be up again for visits from the cable guy (Internet service is on the fritz) and the physical therapist (so’s my leg), followed by a late lunch. Later this afternoon/early evening I’ll again find the couch and its cushions for another nap before waking at around 7 to begin my exciting evening all over again!
So yes, you can see how my sleeping habits have evolved to mimic those of my felines these past few weeks. Does that really mean I’m turning into a cat? I shall allow you to be the judge. However, as additional evidence I offer my faltering appetite since returning home from surgery. Some may attribute that to increased stress, loneliness, or some other bizarre explanation. I prefer to say I’ve become more finicky.
I would never suggest that my family has enjoyed the adventure that has become my broken leg, but when recounting the events of the original break back in November 2008 they sometimes eagerly discuss the moment when the fine EMTs of the Homewood Fire Department wheeled me off to their waiting ambulance. Here’s my take on the moment:
The pain filling my entire body immediately post-ladder fall approached an intensity I had not known before. I should probably post a story describing the initial event in all its gory detail. The pain was so great as to be nearly unbearable, which is an odd sensation. What happens when it truly becomes unbearable? Hmmm…. In any case, I have injured myself before – I’ve fallen, slipped, been knocked by various objects, and more. I know that there is always some initial, intense pain. And that it generally fades away. Sometimes quickly, sometimes less so. So when that ladder slipped, and I fell with it down to the deck behind my childhood home, I wanted to wait a few moments for the searing pain to fade. That’s usually the point at which one may “walk it off.” It was when the pain failed to recede that I began to realize we had a problem. That, and of course there was the odd angle at which my lower leg seemed to extend below the knee… What I am trying to say, in far too many words than is necessary, is that it was obvious within moments that I had suffered a serious Breaking of the Leg.
So when I was strapped to that gurney, being whisked away to my safety, and the emergency personnel asked which hospital I’d prefer, of course I replied:
Which hospital has the most attractive nurses?
Do I care about attractive nurses? Of course I do! Attractive nurses deserve just as much that life has to offer as anyone else. Do the more eye-catching of RNs provide a higher quality of medical care? I’m sure it’s a debatable question, but in the end a moot point. Of course I was simply attempting to lighten the mood a bit. Believe me, if you had seen the look on my dad’s face when he saw me strapped to a board, with neck collar, leg splint, and EMTs as far as the eye could see, you’d have wanted to lighten the mood as well. For some reason my dad always seems to worry when one of his children falls on difficult times…
At any rate, the simple truth is that recovery from a broken leg or any serious illness or injury is not a happy time. I put as bright a face on this as possible, but it has been difficult. For the past several days my strength has been pushed down so far there are times when I simply cannot get up from the couch, assuming I managed to get to it in the first place. I’ve been staying up late into the night because sleeping is difficult. Then when I finally do fall into a fitfull slumber, frequently broken by medication alarms, bathroom breaks, and the awful, terrible discomfort known as “keeping your leg in the same raised position for hours”, it seems I must force myself up again to feed two hungry kittens, clean and dress pins embedded into my leg, sweep floors, check emails, and write deliciously enticing blog posts.
The past week has been hard – mostly with my fall, the resulting increase in pain, and especially the completely sapped energy in the face of many many chores and daily responsibilities. But it is getting better. I know I was not eating well enough, probably not drinking enough water. Combine that with little sleep and it’s no surprise I didn’t have the energy for the most basic of tasks. This weekend I am in much better shape, and ready to face my Saturday! In fact, the kitty litter has already been changed, dishes washed, leg pins tweaked, kittens fed, and now blog updated! Of course the time is past noon and I’ve had no breakfast as of yet, but I promise it is next on the list!
My doctor is well-trained and highly regarded in his field. I’m positive he attended all sorts of medical schools, studying everything there is to know concerning things orthopaedic. In fact, his résumé is posted on the website of his practice, and it’s like 8 pages long! Yeah, I know! And he works for the Hospital for Special Surgery, which has apparently been consistently ranked very highly in things orthopaedic in the country for a number of years. In all seriousness, HSS is a fantastic hospital, one of the oldest (I believe the first) orthopaedic hospitals in the country. And my doctor is incredibly good. I feel very lucky to have come across his practice. As a result of Dr. Fragomen’s expertise and experience, it is tempting to give him all the credit for the expert diagnosis, smooth surgery, and (thus far) speedy and healthy recovery. However, I feel I must accept some of the accolades. When I went into the hospital for surgery on the afternoon of December 22nd, Dr. Fragomen stopped by my prep room to see that I was ready and the correct leg was clearly marked. He probably felt I might need some pre-operative encouragement and support. Oh, but I was more than ready. I wanted to turn the tables – to boost my doctor’s confidence and show my own unwavering support for the upcoming procedure. As a classically trained musician, of course my first inclination was to shout out
“Break a leg, Doc!”
Fortunately, my better sense leaped to the rescue at that critical moment, and I opted for something else. I merely mumbled a heartfelt “good luck” and the good doctor took his leave.
While I know I clearly played a pivotal role in the entire procedure, I must regrettably also take full blame for my misfortune this past Tuesday night. Here’s the story: My landlord had quite graciously agreed to drive me to my very first post-operative followup appointment Wednesday morning, and had just stopped by to confirm the time and details. As he left, and I bent to return to my well-worn sofa and bottle of pain killers, everything suddenly went wrong. At this point, I feel that I correctly led with my left crutch, followed closely by the (good) left leg, as is appropriate in this type of situation. What I’m sure of is that neither crutch nor leg followed my directions as planned, and I very quickly ended up on the floor and in a good deal of additional pain.
As all men know, it is best not to inspect such injuries right away, if at all. If you just leave them alone they get better on their own eventually, right? So for awhile I didn’t want to disturb the leg and its attached apparatus too much. But ultimately I peeled away my gray sweatpants, unwound the protective gauze, and bent to examine what I’d done. I’ll be honest; I was fairly worried! My prescribed pain medication is pretty tough stuff, and it has worked its magic well. But the pain was back in force post-tumble. Everything looked ok on inspection, but as the night wore on my thoughts took off. Had I landed on one of the aluminum rings screwed to my leg? It’s tough to describe well without visual resources (pictures are coming soon, I promise!). There are 2 metal rings screwed into my right tibia. Nine pins and rods attach the things to me in a way that feels quite permanent. The pain was bad, especially at one particular screw site. Had I landed on that screw and cracked more of my right tibia? Maybe there were new hairline fractures and the entire ring would have to be removed. There doesn’t seem to be much bone to play with in that part of my leg – could my doctor even reattach the rings someplace else? What if he would have to open me up and install some type of plate inside my leg? Maybe the site was infected now and so cracked that Dr. Fragomen would have no choice but to suggest amputation!
Believe me, at times like this, the best course of action is normally to discontinue your use of Vicodin, notice the clock reading 3am, and head straight to bed for as much shuteye as can be managed. Unless there’s blood. But as I’ve said everything looked fine. My appointment with the doctor was only hours away. Surely I could hold out until then. Well, I’m proud and relieved to report that all is well! There is still some pain, but not much more than usual. The apparatus in question is still intact, and so is the infamous leg of blog renown. I am still on track for an excellent recovery, though I may not be answering the door much in the coming weeks.
N.B. For those of you demanding video footage, audio of my squeals, and slow-motion playback, I am truly sorry to disappoint. No such evidence exists. However, I do promise to very soon supply photos of my soon-to-be-famous leg in all its glory!
One of the selling points for the surgery required to affix one of Dr. Charles Taylor’s incredible Spatial Frames to the body appears to be that one may almost immediately begin showering – with the frame on! (Not that I have a choice in the matter… this frame is going nowhere. See my future post on black market fixator removal attempts techniques.) I do remember my doctor (Austin T. Fragomen, M.D. of the Hospital for Special Surgery) bringing the point up in one of my earliest appointments.Truly, it is not a minor consideration, as anyone who has worn a cast can tell you.
When I first broke my leg in November of 2008, I was treated with a standard full-leg cast, worn for about 7 weeks. Here are a few things to consider:
- A cast like that cannot get wet.
- Dressing & undressing can be quite difficult, perhaps impossible without assistance.
- Many of the clothes we all take for granted cannot fit over a cast.
- Middle-of-the-night awakenings in a sweaty jumble of pain and confusion are common.
- Some of the simplest physical tasks can require a great deal of exertion and multiple attempts.
Are you getting the picture? Just think about wearing the same clothes day in and day out, tossing, turning, sweating, in pain… and the shower is unavailable. For 6 to 8 weeks. Even the most pristine of us begin to ripen quite quickly under those circumstances.
Which brings me back to the TSF. While recuperating in the hospital after surgery, my doctor stopped by for a visit. “You can take a shower the fourth day after surgery. That’ll be this Saturday.” I’ll tell you the truth: I wasn’t too concerned at the time. Eh, I live alone, I thought. I went weeks without showering when wearing my cast. I won’t be going back to work right away. I wasn’t really worried about when I’d be able to shower. Besides, I was living in a haze of self-regulated morphine-derived medication just a thumb press away.
Let’s jump ahead to today. According to the calendar, today is Tuesday, the 5th of January, 2010. It has been 2 weeks since my surgery. I last shaved my face the evening before heading to the hospital. Laundry is a task I’ve not yet contemplated (can’t make the trip to the laundromat anyway). I own 2 pair of pants that can be fit over my frame – some soft gray sweatpants that are my second home, and the terrific rip-away athletic pants Mark & Tina picked up for me when I first broke my leg. Disregarding the boxers vs. briefs debate for a moment, my current condition leaves few options in that regard. To sum up: out of necessity I carefully clean all 9 pins and rods that attach the TSF to my leg bones each and every day. The rest of me is on its own.
I live in a decent-sized one-bedroom apartment in Queens, NY – not far from LaGuardia airport. The apartment is comprised of living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, and takes up most of the first floor of a single-family home. I’m not sure when this house was built, but it probably dates to the immediate post-war timeframe. So it’s an older building, pretty well maintained, but without a slew of modern appliances. I do not have a dishwasher, nor is there a garbage disposal in the sink. When I wash my dirty dishes, pots and pans, I dump most of the waste into the trash can first – but some food particles always make it into the sink. That’s why I bought a great silicone sink strainer made by Oxo Good Grips. It catches nearly everything and is easy to empty and clean. Still, I don’t clean it out every single time I wash dishes. So there are times when I go to the kitchen sink and sense the faintest wafting of decaying food bits reminding me of my duties.
For the past several days I have smelled a similar sweetly sour odor even when I’m not at the sink! In fact, it appears to follow me around throughout the day. Strangely enough, this familiar aroma often shows up at night in bed too. When I went to the sink this morning to wash my breakfast dishes, I sensed the scent yet again. Had I neglected to carefully empty the sink strainer? Or had I seriously passed my own expiration date? That, gentle readers, is a question I leave for you to ponder. But I may soon discuss showering while wearing an external fixator.
A few days prior to Thanksgiving 2008, I suffered a fall from/with a ladder while installing storm windows at my parents’ house in suburban Chicago. The day was fair, the weather on the warm side for the season, and the accident itself was nothing spectacular. However, at the end of it all, my lower right leg was broken in several spots. My frantic cries of pain, first-ever ambulance trip (yippee!), and harrowing tale of recovery make a fine story in its own right. This, however, is a chronicle of another sort.
Just over one year later, I am now the proud somewhat shocked owner of a Taylor Spatial Frame (TSF for short), otherwise known as “a hunk of metal screwed into my leg – on the outside.” Largely for my own sanity, I have decided to keep a log, of sorts, of the experience – aka the pain, frustration, misery, pain, ridicule, monotony, searing pain, pin cleanings, agony, and joy of daily life.
So join me, gentle reader! Over the months to come I shall reveal the mysteries and glories of the Ilizarov Technique, as experienced by one poor schmuck in Queens, NY.
