Some Moments

One of the key themes of Leg+Frame thus far has been the sheer monotony which is recovering from surgery. Every once in a while I'll do something to add some spice to my life, such as leaving my chair to head off on an expedition to the kitchen. But for the most part I stick to my chair—while the leg is settling down a good deal, the pin sites sometimes still prickle when I stand up and I only have so much energy. The only things worth writing about, it seems, are brief little moments here and there. So, for this post, a collection of these moments.

1. Chinese class earlier this week. The frame was making its presence known by pushing against my sweatpants, each strut and each in standing out in stark relief against the otherwise loose hanging fabric. Some of my classmates notice the cage, ask what it is. I offer to let them see. The pants are barely lifted to expose the metal beneath when my classmates are visibly grossed out. "You can actually see it going into your leg," is the immediate surprised reaction. Well, yes, of course you can see the pins going into the leg. What did you expect? They tell me they expected to see some padding between the pin sites and open air. But at this point, padding would just be a hassle for me. Better to keep things simple.

2. Waiting for the elevator to arrive. My senior class of less than a 130 has been on a leg-injuring rampage recently and four or five of us cannot take the stairs. Whenever I want to move from floor to floor, unless I'm feeling really up for a challenge, I get to wait for the elevator, leaning against the walker to relieve pressure from the leg. Eventually, the elevator arrives and when it ascends (or descends) the sounds it makes remind me all too much of the sounds an elevator would make if it was debating plunging you to an early death.

3. This morning, preparing to put on a sock. I lift up the foot and see a trail of dried blood leading up to the region where the sweatpants hides my healing leg. I thought one of the pin sites had sprung a leak (again) but as it turned out the almost-healed ankle incision was to blame. My mother got me a warm wet washcloth and I gently wiped the trail away. While there was not a huge volume of blood to deal with, there was still some and the scrubbing took longer than I anticipated. I yet to check the bed to see if any blood got onto the sheets, but based on patterns in the trail on my foot, such a check would be merited.

4. Trying to fall asleep in the bed my parents rigged up in my mother's office so I wouldn't have to take the stairs to get outside in case of an emergency. It's late and I'm almost asleep. It's also time for the dogs to be put to bed. The dogs are not very fond of being locked into small confined areas away from their humans but they get fed before they fall asleep. As they are led into the back for being thrust outside and eventually confined, they bark with excitement. They just can't help themselves. I wish they could, because their excitement keeps me up later.

5. In my normal life I greatly enjoy roller coasters. While I was in the hospital, Dr. Sundberg hinted that I might be able to ride roller coasters again in August, a reasonable time. At the most recent appointment, my parents made a point to bring up how long I should wait until riding roller coasters again. Unfortunately, Dr. Sundberg does not see the appeal in such contraptions (for me, the appeal lies in the safety of the ride and in the precision of the engineering, in the magnitude of the structure and in the progression of the forces) and informs me maybe in the fall. I do not speak but am not amused. At all.

6. I should probably get outside more but at the moment the entirety of outside is a uniform shade of Minnesota winter gray and when I do go outside the temperature, with a wind chill of minus fifteen or some other ridiculous number, and the wind pass easily through whatever I have on. Maybe during the spring? It can't be too much longer now…