Leg over heart

My days have been filled with obsessively awaiting my appointment with my orthopedic. I would be getting my cast off in lieu of a removable one. They would be impressed with how well I was doing. I would be getting a timeline for recovery (finally!) so that I could henceforth focus not just on bending my knee, but walking. I would see my leg, something I had become completely disconnected with even though it is what hinders my every move, weighs down my outlook, my presence and my frame.

The staples were taken out, and the cotton pealed away, layer by layer. My leg was signed by the doctor whom had completed my surgery, securing alienation. My skin looked reptilian. Dessicated, puffy and a myriad of shades of blue, brown, yellow. The cuts are deep, notably in my ankle where the plate and six little screws went in.

I was told to wait. That my bones hadn't healed at all in two weeks, nor should I have expected them to. Despite my focus on leg exercises and bending my knee, outward progress, there was none internally at all. Four more weeks with no weight on my leg. This means leg above heart. Leg extended over four pillows.

My pleas for something, anything, that I could do to help this process along went nowhere. The doctor was miffed at my insistence and haughtily asked me why I thought I could heal faster than every other person who had come through his office. He did tell me to take an Aspirin a day to prevent blood clots due to inactivity. So I wouldn't have a fucking aneurysm. I still may. Who knows.

I came home deflated. It would be another two and a half to three months before I would be able to function "normally." A month before I could (maybe) start going to physical therapy and actively strive for progress.

Patience. This word has never been my strong suit. And now it is my everything. It has to be. It's been shoved deep into me, filling my body with rage and repugnance.

I was able to talk to a fellow derby girl, Angry Wrench, last night about her recovery progress. She sustained a similar injury four months ago. I fell silent, mesmerized by her flow of recounts- everything she had to say applied to me. She offered her physical therapy protocol, counsel and hope. It's humbling how linked we are because of sharing such a devastating experience. Separately, but, still, shared. Although the doctor did not offer me any, Wrench gave me validation. One of the last things she said to me was, "you know, I think we're going to be friends." I think so, too.

That night, my brother, sister-in-law and nephews arrived for a visit. Aidan gave me his stuffed kitty to hold and had drawn me a picture, ever the sweet little artist. Connor made me tea and hugged me dearly. A pile of books and yarn. A little light.

The ups and downs are peaks and ditches, not mere speed bumps. All my excitement for bathing my leg ceased this morning when my stomach, instead, pooled with dread. I was slow to take off my clothes and my new storm trooper boot. Pants off, my thigh is half the size it was two weeks ago. My ankle is larger than my tiny, j-ello appendage that I don't even recognize to be my own. I sobbed as I was soaping it up, trying to remove the betodyne and erase the remaining cotton and blood. A block of wood, my ankle.

I am now, only now, truly accepting the limitations of my injury.

It's going to be a resplendent spring and summer. I'm going to ride my bike. Scream. Run. Jump. Dance. Take out the trash. Cook. Go hiking. O, yeah, and skate my heart out. My leg will no longer be over it, rather, supporting it. It will be free, holding hands with my spirit.