As of the moment, still no exciting new developments as I continue progressing to my encounter with the Taylor Spatial Frame. I'm still trying to figure out what academic expectations I'll need to fulfill post-op, still trying to figure out just what the problem with my ankle happens to be (the current leading hypothesis: the ankle is stressed because I favor that leg, seeing as the other one is mildly crooked). I remain fairly relaxed about the procedure. I think a lot of this calmness can be traced to my having roughly zero conception of just what, exactly, wearing a Taylor Spatial Frame feels like, what it entails, what it means.
Other than having a straight leg, that is.
For a week or two I've been meaning to start writing down my backstory, my previous history with legs, osteochondromas and surgeries, figuring that it would be helpful for me and perhaps interesting to know given the general purpose of this blog.
Hence, today's inaugural backstory entry.
RECONSTRUCTED MEMORIES
I had my first surgery in the winter of 2004 when I was nine years old, which is to say, these issues with my legs have been prevalent in my life for a while now. Supposedly, when I was very young, I ran around outside all the time. When my family lived in Virginia, we had a wonderful large yard, complete with several freestanding stone sheds and a gorgeous magnolia tree perfect for climbing. I can remember the yard very well.
I cannot, however, remember pending all my time outside. I have a smattering of memories from that time: an isolated incidence of standing on a Minnesota parking lot, free of context, a small dirty-white dog leaping up to bite my uncle's hand, our larger dogs staring into the house from the porch, me lying on the floor with a marker in my hand, creating construction paper books. But not of running.
My parents say that when we visited people's houses I would run around outside and ask to see their gardens. I have manufactured memories of this, probable images informed by these stories but with no grounding in concrete remembered images.
My surgeon in Virginia had his office in a low-lying building called KCRC: the Kluge Children's Rehabilitation Center, ran by the University of Virginia. The waiting room at KCRC was a wonderful thing. They had piles and piles of magazines to peruse, a row of computers to play on, and, most impressive of all, a large room with enormous windows stocked with everything I adored: a plastic climbing-castle, coloring supplies, a table covered in Thomas trains.
I remember climbing in that castle very well, pretending with my brothers that we lived in the medieval ages while for the most part ignoring the other children, sliding down the anachronistic yellow slide emerging from the side of the structure.
I remember my first orthopedic doctor considerably less well. When I was three, my parents noticed a suspicious lump beneath my knee. Fearing the worst, I was taken in to the doctor's and diagnosed with multiple osteochondromas, a disease I inherited from my mother (the immediate blame, as with many immediate blames, went to my father though eventual testing revealed my mother to be the culprit in passing down my condition). In short, I've been meeting with doctors about the condition for a while now.
The first doctor, if my memory serves, was an old man with white hair. As my mother has remarked many times, he was very apprehensive about operating on me.
Eventually, he left UVa and KCRC and I wound up with a new orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Mark Abel (who was utterly fantastic). My first appointment with Dr. Abel, he suggested operating. My mother left, taking me with.
When we returned, he was less gung-ho about putting me under the knife.
I can't remember exactly how long it took between when Dr. Abel first talked about operating on me and when I was actually operated on. I want to say that it wasn't very long, but to tell the truth, I have no idea. What I've written is entirely reconstruction, a melding together of the stories I've heard from my mother.
I do remember that I was not scared of that first surgery. I had no ability to comprehend what it would entail. It was fun, exciting, a mystery—just think, I'd be the only kid in my grade to have had surgery!
I remember quite clearly sitting on the arm of our big green chair in the library, leg swinging, music playing in the background, very calm, ready to go on the morning of that first surgery.
No comments:
Post a Comment