Earlier today I had an appointment to get the leg x-rayed once more. After going through the motions a few times, I knew what to do. For the frontal view of the frame, the device needed stabilization with sandbags. For the side view, the frame could be counted on to stabilize itself. And, through the mix of my knowing how to position a Taylor Spatial Frame for x-rays and the nurse being pretty relaxed, allowing me to keep on my jacket and one shoe, it was a fairly easy ordeal.
Dr. Sundberg was sent the x-rays and, long story short, I was approved to have the frame removed about three and a half days from now. Apparently the osteotomy is not fully healed, but if the doctor says the frame can come off, well, I'd imagine the frame can come off. I had been planning on posting pictures, but never actually managed to get my hands on the x-rays. I'll need to work on that particular objective at some point.
The end was scheduled a few weeks ago, but was actually confirmed today. So…that's exciting?
But, for now, I have a blog which needs to make some progress…
FRESHMAN YEAR, PART ONE
For a number of disparate and ultimately inconsequential reasons, I decided I wanted to try to run cross country my freshman year of high school. There was the part of me that had always been deeply intimidated and therefore in awe of the idea of running miles at a time. There was the part of me that wanted to capitalize on my success running the mile in less than ten minutes. There was the part of me which decided that some of the people on the team who I knew would be worth getting to know better. There was the part of me that tried to listen to people who said I'd probably be best at long distance (compared to, say, sprinting). There was the part of me that knew a younger brother was also running.
I managed to join the email list and, during the summer, go for a run exactly once. Despite the mile, I was not exactly in shape.
All those concerns became rather secondary when there was another surgery, I believe to remove a growth on the femur, do something with a shoulder and I can swear something else. As before, the procedure itself was fairly straightforward and I remember pretty much none of it.
There are, however, two separate pieces of the overall experience which I remember quite clearly. The first is the day before the surgery. The procedure was scheduled for Thursday, July 16, 2009. July 15 was opening day for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
Over the eight movies in the series, I saw seven in theaters and the final three on the day they opened. Half-Blood Prince was the one which started the trend. My mother was interested in seeing the thing and decided to buy tickets. The only showtime which wasn't sold out before the surgery was 11:30 PM. So, we went to a nearly sold-out Harry Potter at 11:30 PM. I was technically only allowed to eat popcorn for the first half hour of movie so I could be ready for anesthesia the following day. I think we got home at something like two in the morning. The roads were completely empty. Since I was having surgery the following day, my mother figured it didn't really matter what time I got to bed.
The other memory from that surgery comes later. I was recovering and, seeing as a large growth had just been removed from the femur, my motion was deeply restricted. In short, I was in a wheelchair. Some of the brothers had started doing summer swimming and were at the final meet for their recreational swim league. Since I was confined to my chair, I spent the day at home with my youngest brother, who spent the entire day playing the Wii.
I spent my entire day wishing I could turn off the Wii but being thoroughly unable to do anything about it—the one leg was propped up in the chair, my shoulder was still recovering and I was stuck. For quite literally hours, I sat in my wheelchair and watched as my younger brother played video games, bored out of my mind and wondering just what, exactly, I had done to deserve this.
Eventually, my parents came home and I was saved.
Some time after that, I got better. I was able to walk by the time school started and things passed fairly uneventfully until December, when we moved to Minnesota, leaving Virginia once the roads cleared up after a massive storm dumped more than two feet onto the roads around Charlottesville the day we planned to leave.
At my school in Virginia, I never had any intention of fulfilling the athletic requirements, which were rather stringent—two seasons, I believe, freshman and sophomore year, followed by another season each junior and senior year. I could very easily obtain medical excuses from Dr. Abel and, to tell the truth, there was a sort of cruel logic in my lack of participation. Physical activity, as I'd discover later, has a tendency of aggravating my legs and, as I learned a bit into the Minnesota move, there was the issue of the right leg not being as straight as it perhaps could have been. Also, sports were hard.
My half-crazed impulse to run cross country had been dashed rather magnificently by the most recent surgery. And yet, less than a year post-op (though all thoughts of the procedure had left my mind), I made the rash decision to go out for track. The new school required a season of athletic participation each freshman and sophomore year.
That sounded doable to me.
To be fair, track was not my first attempt at athletic participation. Attempt number one was a short-lived stint on the fencing team. Fencing, I discovered, is an activity much more fun in concept than it is in practice. There is only so much pleasure one can derive from squatting and swatting others with a sword. As a sport, fencing is nothing like the grand swordfights against skeletons or six-fingered men one sees in the movies.
So I did that for a few months. My ultimate goal was still to lower the mile time even more—perhaps to less than eight minutes.
My first day of track did not go well. I had failed to get my athletic forms signed. Since the fencing team was not the best organized and didn't give a hoot either way, I'd been allowed to attend practice and compete for the school without getting things signed. Since track was better organized and actually listened to the mandates of the athletic office, I got to spend my first day of practice pacing outside, watching everybody else be forced to run. Because I was a bit of an idiot and failed to think things through properly, I thought that the practice seemed doable.
The next day, my forms were signed and, on an impulse, I decided to join the throwers. It sounded interesting and, despite all the romantic and idealistic connotations I found in running, running still scared me deeply.
And, to summarize, that is why I became a thrower.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Sunday, April 28, 2013
In Which Here We Go Again
Well…for the second time in less than six months I am less than a week from returning to the St. Paul campus of Gilette Children's Hospital to have the bones in my leg meddled with. I wish I could say with certainty what number surgery this is for me, but the truth of that matter is I can't say for sure. At some point the exact number and exactly what happened—those are meaningless tidbits of information. What's important is that I've had a number of surgeries and they've made my body more usable now than it would be otherwise.
Anyhow. I'm getting off topic.
Before December, my nightmare smell was the smell of anesthesia. If on edge or nervous or maybe both or maybe neither, I'd catch a faint whiff of anesthesia and just feel less secure. These days it's the scent of hospital saline. Six days in the hospital does wonders.
At dinner tonight, I was sitting at the table and there, at the edge of my perception, was a trace of saline in the air. It came back and I excused myself to go to the bathroom even though I didn't need to. I just wanted to get up and move. I knew the smell was in my mind, but there was something cathartic associated with motion. Running away, it turned out, worked. I wasn't bothered the rest of the meal.
Anyhow. At present I am sitting on the bed with my computer on my lap, typing this entry out. Here in Minnesota, the past few days have been unreal in the best sense possible. We went from snow earlier in the week to temperatures in the seventies on Thursday with calm blue skies. I spent my entire day yesterday cheering for my teammates and just enjoying the weather. I recently started reading Stephen King's It (yes, yet another 1000+ page King novel), which is basically a thousand pages of coming of age story with some monsters thrown in (the book is, in other words, wonderful). While my academic workload isn't really decreasing yet and, despite everything I say, I'm still too driven to slack off, I only have two weeks of classes left and, after those, two AP tests and, after those, three weeks of translating Latin and trying to write a novel. I should be relaxed.
Here's where the other shoe falls.
When I was at this point in December, staring at a surgery less than a week away, I was mostly calm. It had been almost two years since my last trip to the operating room and besides, since the procedure this time was so different from anything I'd had before, I couldn't really anticipate anything except from some quotes which turned out to not describe the experience I was headed into.
I am starting to get really nervous now.
I've got a better idea of what to expect now. I know exactly what it's like to be administered anesthesia through a gas mask before, I've had a few littler surgeries before, I've had the leg go without its friend the frame in the past (as hard as that almost is to imagine these days). I've seen pictures of legs which have recently lost frames. I've spent lots of time on the couch (months, actually) with limited mobility and my brother plugging through episode after episode of Top Gear.
So here we go again.
Anesthesia through the gas mask—though, as much as I hate needles, I'm going to try to persuade them to give it to me intravenously. A smaller surgery—and I devoutly hope it stays that way; the last thing I need now, so close to the end of high school, is another hospital stay. The leg without its friend—and even though the leg will be sporting some bloody holes for a bit, and even though Dr. Sundberg has assured me this will not be painless, and even though I'll be partially immobilized, and even though I won't be able to switch to normal not-extra-large-to-accomodate-destructive-metal-brace pants for a few days, and even though I won't be allowed to run or jump or ride roller coasters for a long time more, I think I'm excited. At this point I really need to focus on the long term.
You see, in the long term, while the scent of anesthesia (and saline) will still haunt my nightmares, my leg will be straight and free from its brace. In the long term, the smaller surgery will be barely a blip in my memory. In the long term, my only physical reminders of the frame will be a couple faded scars. And in the long term, if there is pain, I'll forget what it feels like, and even though I may be partially immobilized for a few days, I'll be fully mobile, and I'll be able to wear pants that are actually my size and run and jump and ride roller coasters.
This doesn't mean that I'm not more than a bit apprehensive at the concept of going into the operating room. Trust me, I am.
But this time I am not approaching the beginning of the long, slow-but-sure process of straightening the leg. This time I'm approaching its completion.
Anyhow. I'm getting off topic.
Before December, my nightmare smell was the smell of anesthesia. If on edge or nervous or maybe both or maybe neither, I'd catch a faint whiff of anesthesia and just feel less secure. These days it's the scent of hospital saline. Six days in the hospital does wonders.
At dinner tonight, I was sitting at the table and there, at the edge of my perception, was a trace of saline in the air. It came back and I excused myself to go to the bathroom even though I didn't need to. I just wanted to get up and move. I knew the smell was in my mind, but there was something cathartic associated with motion. Running away, it turned out, worked. I wasn't bothered the rest of the meal.
Anyhow. At present I am sitting on the bed with my computer on my lap, typing this entry out. Here in Minnesota, the past few days have been unreal in the best sense possible. We went from snow earlier in the week to temperatures in the seventies on Thursday with calm blue skies. I spent my entire day yesterday cheering for my teammates and just enjoying the weather. I recently started reading Stephen King's It (yes, yet another 1000+ page King novel), which is basically a thousand pages of coming of age story with some monsters thrown in (the book is, in other words, wonderful). While my academic workload isn't really decreasing yet and, despite everything I say, I'm still too driven to slack off, I only have two weeks of classes left and, after those, two AP tests and, after those, three weeks of translating Latin and trying to write a novel. I should be relaxed.
Here's where the other shoe falls.
When I was at this point in December, staring at a surgery less than a week away, I was mostly calm. It had been almost two years since my last trip to the operating room and besides, since the procedure this time was so different from anything I'd had before, I couldn't really anticipate anything except from some quotes which turned out to not describe the experience I was headed into.
I am starting to get really nervous now.
I've got a better idea of what to expect now. I know exactly what it's like to be administered anesthesia through a gas mask before, I've had a few littler surgeries before, I've had the leg go without its friend the frame in the past (as hard as that almost is to imagine these days). I've seen pictures of legs which have recently lost frames. I've spent lots of time on the couch (months, actually) with limited mobility and my brother plugging through episode after episode of Top Gear.
So here we go again.
Anesthesia through the gas mask—though, as much as I hate needles, I'm going to try to persuade them to give it to me intravenously. A smaller surgery—and I devoutly hope it stays that way; the last thing I need now, so close to the end of high school, is another hospital stay. The leg without its friend—and even though the leg will be sporting some bloody holes for a bit, and even though Dr. Sundberg has assured me this will not be painless, and even though I'll be partially immobilized, and even though I won't be able to switch to normal not-extra-large-to-accomodate-destructive-metal-brace pants for a few days, and even though I won't be allowed to run or jump or ride roller coasters for a long time more, I think I'm excited. At this point I really need to focus on the long term.
You see, in the long term, while the scent of anesthesia (and saline) will still haunt my nightmares, my leg will be straight and free from its brace. In the long term, the smaller surgery will be barely a blip in my memory. In the long term, my only physical reminders of the frame will be a couple faded scars. And in the long term, if there is pain, I'll forget what it feels like, and even though I may be partially immobilized for a few days, I'll be fully mobile, and I'll be able to wear pants that are actually my size and run and jump and ride roller coasters.
This doesn't mean that I'm not more than a bit apprehensive at the concept of going into the operating room. Trust me, I am.
But this time I am not approaching the beginning of the long, slow-but-sure process of straightening the leg. This time I'm approaching its completion.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Backstory 5: Running the Mile
Looking through previous backstory entries here, these things tend to start with an introduction that places me in the present moment as far as the story of Natcher and his marvelous Taylor Spatial Frame goes. Since I just finished writing the last of these entries—for anybody wondering, it took a while and was a lot harder than I thought it would be—I'm not sure how much I have to say to preface this one.
Talking about running in the present moment is much more complex than talking about when the frame is coming off, partially because I simply do not know when my restriction on running will be lifted, though from what I've gathered it will be months from now. I spend a solid amount of every day now at track practice and occasionally watch the runners go by. But as far as actually running myself…let's just say I have a checkered history (at best) with running. Very checkered.
RUNNING THE MILE
My first brush with the mile came in second grade. It was one of those lovely Virginia days. Not lovely in the sarcastic sense of "redefining hot and humid" but lovely in the sense of moderate temperatures, no precipitation, clear blue sky. The grass on the football field was nice and green.
The P.E. teachers explained the situation to us. We were going to be running the mile for the first time. Four laps around the football field. We'd be timed.
I can no longer remember what a good time for a second grade student to run the mile is. I do remember that my time was something along the lines of 18 minutes, 36 seconds. I was still going, struggling on my final lap well after the rest of my classmates had gone inside to waiting water and air conditioning.
That was more or less how me running the mile went the first many times. I dropped five minutes the next year but was still the last on the field. I seem to recall that it was another couple years until I ran the mile again. That one was faster, but still took more than ten minutes. I believe there was another mile in seventh grade, between surgery and mono. That one was about twelve minutes.
I think it makes sense to mention here that I have had a deep fascination with running for a long time now. The simplicity of the motion, the lack of equipment required fascinates me. The concept of going faster than a walk, of burning energy, of pounding rhythms strike me as flat-out wonderful. I can remember challenging myself to running-related challenges in the backyard when I was younger—a hundred laps around a minuscule garden (total distance: not very long). According to my parents, I was incredibly active before the bone growths started kicking in and making physical activity harder.
My eighth grade year, 2008-2009, started off fairly simple. The summer had passed without incident. I was going on a year from my last surgery. I believe I was going to physical therapy then, trying to get in better physical condition.
I've been in physical therapy many, many times before at a variety of facilities in and around the Charlottesville area. Often, physical therapy would be to recover from surgery; other times, to improve conditioning and combat whatever new little bone growth-related pain was flaming up.
To make a long story I can't remember short, in the spring of my eighth grade year I was meeting regularly with a physical therapist at ACAC, the athletic club in Charlottesville. His name was John, he had been a thrower in college, he knew how all the machines worked, he was excellent. He was friendly, didn't push me too hard but still made sure I was making progress. While working with him I sort of learned how to play basketball, developed some actual muscles for the first time ever and, most significantly to me, ran a mile in under ten minutes.
You see, ten is an easy number to remember, a clear dividing line. As far as I'm concerned, there are miles above ten minutes and miles below ten minutes. In second grade, I was in awe of those who could run the mile twice as fast as I could. Sub-ten minutes seemed like an achievement I would never gain and the more miles I ran slower than ten, the more I started to believe this.
At some point, I told John about my goal. Before too long, we started training. I'm not going to lie and say there was a lot of training which went into my attempt. But there was some.
The layout of the main area of ACA is fairly simple. In the center, you have the basketball courts. Around the basketball courts you have weightlifting. Above the weights are exercise bikes. Around the entire ensemble is a running track, made of some soft blue substance, twelve laps to the mile.
The first training session for the mile was fairly simple. He jogged, I followed. The pace was, I believe, eight minutes to the mile. I kept up fairly well, felt confident about myself. He reminded me that when I did it for real, the distance would be much farther and I wouldn't have him for pacing.
This was not a development I'd been anticipating.
And yet…one day, not too long after I'd started working towards my goal, my younger brothers ran the mile at school. I liked the concept of syncing my attempt with theirs. I brought the idea up to John. He agreed, given a few conditions. Namely, if halfway through I was not on pace for my ten minute mile, I'd be done. And, as I should have figured out earlier, nobody would be helping me pace myself.
Fine.
I'd been waiting what felt like forever to do a mile in less than ten minutes (the thought of trying on my own honestly never occurred to me and besides, part of the point of running the mile in my mind has always been that others can validate your performance—yes, you actually got that time, it was real).
So I started running.
The first few laps were fairly simple. My eyes wandered the gym, wandered around the shining metal equipment and the diverse array of exercisers in the building. I kept moving forward, counting down in my head. Twelve laps to go. Eleven laps to go. Ten laps to go.
And so on.
I did my best to keep my pace constant, though I had no way to tell if I was succeeding or not. I had zero running experience, remember. Though I did not know it, I was running on a leg which was not straight. I had had so many surgeries. My right leg looked like it had two kneecaps. Both legs were covered with the remnants of past incisions.
Six laps in and I wasn't stopped.
Nine laps in, I started slowing. Buoyed by the motion and expenditure of energy, I was feeling fine, but in truth I was wearing out. This was real exercise beyond anything I'd attempted before. There was a part of me which knew I was slowing, I think.
So I sped up. Not a lot, mind you—I'm not capable of speed now and I certainly wasn't back then. But the pace increased, the lap times went down.
When I finished the final lap and returned to the starting position, I'm not sure if I asked for the time or not. With the motion finished, my head started pounding and my lungs started burning.
John told me the time was nine minutes, nineteen seconds.
He was joking and we both knew it.
The actual time was nine minutes, nineteen seconds.
I lumbered over to a waiting bench and, borrowing his cell phone, called my mother. When I'd told her that it was me calling I told her why I was calling. I'd done it, I'd done it, I'd done it, nine minutes nineteen seconds, a whole mile in less than ten minutes.
It wasn't until later that she told me she didn't think I would be able to do it.
Listen—I know a mile isn't very far, all things considered. And I'm perfectly well aware that while I have physical limitations, my struggles are nothing compared to what others have. But at the same time, in the whole history of myself and these legs of mine, if I had to choose the best moment, perhaps the most important moment, I'd choose that mile.
If I had to choose anything to experience again, I'd choose that mile.
There are Taylor Spatial Frames and surgeries and aftertastes of anesthesia to deal with, yes, but all the same they are balanced out by those other moments, those triumphant moments. And you know what? Those triumphant moments are completely worthwhile.
Talking about running in the present moment is much more complex than talking about when the frame is coming off, partially because I simply do not know when my restriction on running will be lifted, though from what I've gathered it will be months from now. I spend a solid amount of every day now at track practice and occasionally watch the runners go by. But as far as actually running myself…let's just say I have a checkered history (at best) with running. Very checkered.
RUNNING THE MILE
My first brush with the mile came in second grade. It was one of those lovely Virginia days. Not lovely in the sarcastic sense of "redefining hot and humid" but lovely in the sense of moderate temperatures, no precipitation, clear blue sky. The grass on the football field was nice and green.
The P.E. teachers explained the situation to us. We were going to be running the mile for the first time. Four laps around the football field. We'd be timed.
I can no longer remember what a good time for a second grade student to run the mile is. I do remember that my time was something along the lines of 18 minutes, 36 seconds. I was still going, struggling on my final lap well after the rest of my classmates had gone inside to waiting water and air conditioning.
That was more or less how me running the mile went the first many times. I dropped five minutes the next year but was still the last on the field. I seem to recall that it was another couple years until I ran the mile again. That one was faster, but still took more than ten minutes. I believe there was another mile in seventh grade, between surgery and mono. That one was about twelve minutes.
I think it makes sense to mention here that I have had a deep fascination with running for a long time now. The simplicity of the motion, the lack of equipment required fascinates me. The concept of going faster than a walk, of burning energy, of pounding rhythms strike me as flat-out wonderful. I can remember challenging myself to running-related challenges in the backyard when I was younger—a hundred laps around a minuscule garden (total distance: not very long). According to my parents, I was incredibly active before the bone growths started kicking in and making physical activity harder.
My eighth grade year, 2008-2009, started off fairly simple. The summer had passed without incident. I was going on a year from my last surgery. I believe I was going to physical therapy then, trying to get in better physical condition.
I've been in physical therapy many, many times before at a variety of facilities in and around the Charlottesville area. Often, physical therapy would be to recover from surgery; other times, to improve conditioning and combat whatever new little bone growth-related pain was flaming up.
To make a long story I can't remember short, in the spring of my eighth grade year I was meeting regularly with a physical therapist at ACAC, the athletic club in Charlottesville. His name was John, he had been a thrower in college, he knew how all the machines worked, he was excellent. He was friendly, didn't push me too hard but still made sure I was making progress. While working with him I sort of learned how to play basketball, developed some actual muscles for the first time ever and, most significantly to me, ran a mile in under ten minutes.
You see, ten is an easy number to remember, a clear dividing line. As far as I'm concerned, there are miles above ten minutes and miles below ten minutes. In second grade, I was in awe of those who could run the mile twice as fast as I could. Sub-ten minutes seemed like an achievement I would never gain and the more miles I ran slower than ten, the more I started to believe this.
At some point, I told John about my goal. Before too long, we started training. I'm not going to lie and say there was a lot of training which went into my attempt. But there was some.
The layout of the main area of ACA is fairly simple. In the center, you have the basketball courts. Around the basketball courts you have weightlifting. Above the weights are exercise bikes. Around the entire ensemble is a running track, made of some soft blue substance, twelve laps to the mile.
The first training session for the mile was fairly simple. He jogged, I followed. The pace was, I believe, eight minutes to the mile. I kept up fairly well, felt confident about myself. He reminded me that when I did it for real, the distance would be much farther and I wouldn't have him for pacing.
This was not a development I'd been anticipating.
And yet…one day, not too long after I'd started working towards my goal, my younger brothers ran the mile at school. I liked the concept of syncing my attempt with theirs. I brought the idea up to John. He agreed, given a few conditions. Namely, if halfway through I was not on pace for my ten minute mile, I'd be done. And, as I should have figured out earlier, nobody would be helping me pace myself.
Fine.
I'd been waiting what felt like forever to do a mile in less than ten minutes (the thought of trying on my own honestly never occurred to me and besides, part of the point of running the mile in my mind has always been that others can validate your performance—yes, you actually got that time, it was real).
So I started running.
The first few laps were fairly simple. My eyes wandered the gym, wandered around the shining metal equipment and the diverse array of exercisers in the building. I kept moving forward, counting down in my head. Twelve laps to go. Eleven laps to go. Ten laps to go.
And so on.
I did my best to keep my pace constant, though I had no way to tell if I was succeeding or not. I had zero running experience, remember. Though I did not know it, I was running on a leg which was not straight. I had had so many surgeries. My right leg looked like it had two kneecaps. Both legs were covered with the remnants of past incisions.
Six laps in and I wasn't stopped.
Nine laps in, I started slowing. Buoyed by the motion and expenditure of energy, I was feeling fine, but in truth I was wearing out. This was real exercise beyond anything I'd attempted before. There was a part of me which knew I was slowing, I think.
So I sped up. Not a lot, mind you—I'm not capable of speed now and I certainly wasn't back then. But the pace increased, the lap times went down.
When I finished the final lap and returned to the starting position, I'm not sure if I asked for the time or not. With the motion finished, my head started pounding and my lungs started burning.
John told me the time was nine minutes, nineteen seconds.
He was joking and we both knew it.
The actual time was nine minutes, nineteen seconds.
I lumbered over to a waiting bench and, borrowing his cell phone, called my mother. When I'd told her that it was me calling I told her why I was calling. I'd done it, I'd done it, I'd done it, nine minutes nineteen seconds, a whole mile in less than ten minutes.
It wasn't until later that she told me she didn't think I would be able to do it.
Listen—I know a mile isn't very far, all things considered. And I'm perfectly well aware that while I have physical limitations, my struggles are nothing compared to what others have. But at the same time, in the whole history of myself and these legs of mine, if I had to choose the best moment, perhaps the most important moment, I'd choose that mile.
If I had to choose anything to experience again, I'd choose that mile.
There are Taylor Spatial Frames and surgeries and aftertastes of anesthesia to deal with, yes, but all the same they are balanced out by those other moments, those triumphant moments. And you know what? Those triumphant moments are completely worthwhile.
Backstory 4: Continued Corrections
Yesterday, the packet arrived from the hospital. A simple folder, containing all the information you need to know for your surgery (except for some of the essentials, such as how long the procedure will actually take, how long you will be off-kilter from the anesthesia, if you will experience pain, where precisely your family can find snacks while you're under the knife, etc.). If I need to know when to stop taking baby formula, that's listed. And, more importantly, when I'm supposed to actually arrive up at the hospital.
All I can say is, 6:15 AM is awfully, awfully early, especially for a Friday morning. Granted, under normal non-surgery conditions I would be up by 6:45, but it just seems so…early.
It is also happening incredibly soon. Less than a week and a half to go until I get to start a recovery much fuller than the recovery I've been in for the past few months, a recovery without the frame to serve as a very visible reminder that, hey, things really weren't so great leg-wise in the good old days of before Christmas 2012. And with that onset of life after frame come a few other new things. Some are pretty inconsequential (I'm switching to a new pair of shoes). Others…more so.
This blog has always intended to serve as a semi-complete recording of my time with the Taylor Spatial Frame, a relatively coherent account of life with frame to help others facing a future with pins poking through their legs. This blog is, in other words, about the frame and with the frame departing my body to start its second life, I think it makes sense to wind this story down. I've said so before.
For the first few months of wearing the frame, I was incredibly bored. I sat in my spot, either on the Recovery Couch (later commandeered by the golden retriever) or the Recovery Chair (later commandeered by my anti-boredom knitting project), staring at the wall or using the Internet to research movies and roller coasters or suffering through episode after episode of Top Gear. Then I returned to school and slowly but surely started losing boredom, until I finally did manage to turn everything around in a much more meaningful way, getting myself guaranteed almost-daily fresh air and company.
I still need to tell that story here.
But before getting to that, I have something to complete. In late November, I started an account of my life leading up to the frame. Several days later, I posted a continuation. A month passed, and part three finally arrived.
What I never did was finish telling the backstory behind Leg Plus Frame.
Here goes.
CONTINUED CORRECTIONS
I woke from the first attempt at straighter legs without a problem. Perhaps the actual waking up was a slow, gradual process; perhaps it came quick and easy. Regardless, it was unmemorable enough that I cannot recall those actual moments now, nor can I recall what the hospital room I stayed in that night was like, precisely.
I do recall that it was only after arriving in the hospital room that my mother told me that, as a sort of pleasant surprise, Dr. Abel had removed the screw he put in my ankle the last time. I can recall being somewhat excited by this.
I left the hospital the next day to return home.
Recovery that time was fairly normal. The ankle was sore for months afterward, but where Dr. Abel had broken the fibula felt fine. I got to be in a wheelchair, which was rather entertaining. One day, my family took a road trip to a botanical garden in Richmond. The gardens have a large tree house which is entirely accessible by ramps and I can remember my father running the wheelchair up and down the ramps and greatly enjoying it.
Another thing I remember is that I spent a solid amount of time in the basement. The way the house in Charlottesville was set up, the basement was essentially a full floor, completely finished, completely livable. My bedroom was on the main floor, but the television was in the basement, as was the door it was easiest for my mother to get me inside.
It was during the recovery for that surgery I saw the Spider-Man movies for the first time. I particularly remember seeing the second one in particular—I knew that there was a scene featuring Doctor Octavius in an operating room and I can remember being concerned that the movie might show a bit of surgery in progress. I was rather relieved when he started killing all the doctors in a safely PG-13 fashion before they had a chance to saw into him. My tolerance for gore is not the highest.
Beyond that, it was a slow transition back into normalcy. Recovering from surgery is not a particularly exciting occurrence, particularly if the surgery leaves no visible marks beyond a handful of scars which can be easily covered by clothing. Slowly, over time, you feel more comfortable putting weight on once-injured body parts. Your comfort increases, your movement increases, and before too long you're back to normal.
I stayed at normal for a little bit before heading back for another surgery on St. Patrick's Day 2006, a Friday. My mother had made green gift baskets for the holiday, but with the surgery later in the day, I didn't get to enjoy any of the candy before heading off to the University of Virginia Outpatient Surgery Center. The waiting rooms were clean and bright and before surgery my father played with the equipment in the room to relax me. The procedure was relatively simple—remove a bone growth from the base of the fourth finger on my right hand which had caused the finger to wind up shorter than the rest and was threatening to wear a tendon in the hand to the point of worry. I'd been through enough by then that the surgery didn't phase me in the least, but I still enjoyed laughing at/with my father.
I was going to start rehearsals for the middle school production of Macbeth the coming Monday. In order to convince me to take the anesthesia intravenously, my mother threatened me with missing play practice if I decided on taking anesthesia through the gas mask. It worked.
On the Monday, I showed up to play practice with my hand wrapped in bandages.
A year and a half passed. I encountered middle school. Physical education was a mandated class which went…interestingly. I did my best, faring best during grade-wide games where I could specialize, doing less well on days which involved running in a somewhat straight line. The mile run, which had become my enemy way back in second grade, continued to torment me.
In November 2007, I had another surgery. It is at this point where my memory of what the surgeries were for, exactly, becomes hazy. I believe there were leg-related incisions and I had a bone growth removed from one of my shoulders. I seem to recall that this surgery was out-patient.
What I can remember for certain was that it was the Monday of the final week before Thanksgiving Break. It was my seventh grade year, my first year of taking Latin. As is customary, I went around to all my teachers before the surgery, just letting them know that I was about to miss a ton of class. I asked my Latin teacher if we were doing anything that Monday before Thanksgiving, assuming the answer would be a comforting No.
There was a test that day.
As far as the surgery itself, it wasn't anything to write home about. I went to sleep and probably experienced several days of anesthesia aftertaste—it smells rather like airplane gasoline, and though I've never had airplane gasoline in my mouth I'd imagine the tastes are similar. I got better.
Several weeks later, I made up the Latin test. I was on my own, in the seventh grade science room, a sanitary bright tiled place. I kept wondering why the test couldn't be waived for me. It didn't go well.
I believe I did fairly well academically in seventh grade, though I can't say for certain. In the spring, I dislocated my kneecap—the right one, which is currently resting above a very obvious Taylor Spatial Frame. This did not require missing school. Then I got mononucleosis (I'm still not sure where from) and missed six weeks of school. The experience was strikingly similar to the months of January and February, 2013. I stayed at home, my time marked by when issues of Entertainment Weekly would come through the door—in those days, the magazine still published Stephen King's column, a cause for great excitement. I was bored and though I thought I might be able to get things done, I never managed to motivate myself into actual productivity.
Eventually, I got better from that, too.
All I can say is, 6:15 AM is awfully, awfully early, especially for a Friday morning. Granted, under normal non-surgery conditions I would be up by 6:45, but it just seems so…early.
It is also happening incredibly soon. Less than a week and a half to go until I get to start a recovery much fuller than the recovery I've been in for the past few months, a recovery without the frame to serve as a very visible reminder that, hey, things really weren't so great leg-wise in the good old days of before Christmas 2012. And with that onset of life after frame come a few other new things. Some are pretty inconsequential (I'm switching to a new pair of shoes). Others…more so.
This blog has always intended to serve as a semi-complete recording of my time with the Taylor Spatial Frame, a relatively coherent account of life with frame to help others facing a future with pins poking through their legs. This blog is, in other words, about the frame and with the frame departing my body to start its second life, I think it makes sense to wind this story down. I've said so before.
For the first few months of wearing the frame, I was incredibly bored. I sat in my spot, either on the Recovery Couch (later commandeered by the golden retriever) or the Recovery Chair (later commandeered by my anti-boredom knitting project), staring at the wall or using the Internet to research movies and roller coasters or suffering through episode after episode of Top Gear. Then I returned to school and slowly but surely started losing boredom, until I finally did manage to turn everything around in a much more meaningful way, getting myself guaranteed almost-daily fresh air and company.
I still need to tell that story here.
But before getting to that, I have something to complete. In late November, I started an account of my life leading up to the frame. Several days later, I posted a continuation. A month passed, and part three finally arrived.
What I never did was finish telling the backstory behind Leg Plus Frame.
Here goes.
CONTINUED CORRECTIONS
I woke from the first attempt at straighter legs without a problem. Perhaps the actual waking up was a slow, gradual process; perhaps it came quick and easy. Regardless, it was unmemorable enough that I cannot recall those actual moments now, nor can I recall what the hospital room I stayed in that night was like, precisely.
I do recall that it was only after arriving in the hospital room that my mother told me that, as a sort of pleasant surprise, Dr. Abel had removed the screw he put in my ankle the last time. I can recall being somewhat excited by this.
I left the hospital the next day to return home.
Recovery that time was fairly normal. The ankle was sore for months afterward, but where Dr. Abel had broken the fibula felt fine. I got to be in a wheelchair, which was rather entertaining. One day, my family took a road trip to a botanical garden in Richmond. The gardens have a large tree house which is entirely accessible by ramps and I can remember my father running the wheelchair up and down the ramps and greatly enjoying it.
Another thing I remember is that I spent a solid amount of time in the basement. The way the house in Charlottesville was set up, the basement was essentially a full floor, completely finished, completely livable. My bedroom was on the main floor, but the television was in the basement, as was the door it was easiest for my mother to get me inside.
It was during the recovery for that surgery I saw the Spider-Man movies for the first time. I particularly remember seeing the second one in particular—I knew that there was a scene featuring Doctor Octavius in an operating room and I can remember being concerned that the movie might show a bit of surgery in progress. I was rather relieved when he started killing all the doctors in a safely PG-13 fashion before they had a chance to saw into him. My tolerance for gore is not the highest.
Beyond that, it was a slow transition back into normalcy. Recovering from surgery is not a particularly exciting occurrence, particularly if the surgery leaves no visible marks beyond a handful of scars which can be easily covered by clothing. Slowly, over time, you feel more comfortable putting weight on once-injured body parts. Your comfort increases, your movement increases, and before too long you're back to normal.
I stayed at normal for a little bit before heading back for another surgery on St. Patrick's Day 2006, a Friday. My mother had made green gift baskets for the holiday, but with the surgery later in the day, I didn't get to enjoy any of the candy before heading off to the University of Virginia Outpatient Surgery Center. The waiting rooms were clean and bright and before surgery my father played with the equipment in the room to relax me. The procedure was relatively simple—remove a bone growth from the base of the fourth finger on my right hand which had caused the finger to wind up shorter than the rest and was threatening to wear a tendon in the hand to the point of worry. I'd been through enough by then that the surgery didn't phase me in the least, but I still enjoyed laughing at/with my father.
I was going to start rehearsals for the middle school production of Macbeth the coming Monday. In order to convince me to take the anesthesia intravenously, my mother threatened me with missing play practice if I decided on taking anesthesia through the gas mask. It worked.
On the Monday, I showed up to play practice with my hand wrapped in bandages.
A year and a half passed. I encountered middle school. Physical education was a mandated class which went…interestingly. I did my best, faring best during grade-wide games where I could specialize, doing less well on days which involved running in a somewhat straight line. The mile run, which had become my enemy way back in second grade, continued to torment me.
In November 2007, I had another surgery. It is at this point where my memory of what the surgeries were for, exactly, becomes hazy. I believe there were leg-related incisions and I had a bone growth removed from one of my shoulders. I seem to recall that this surgery was out-patient.
What I can remember for certain was that it was the Monday of the final week before Thanksgiving Break. It was my seventh grade year, my first year of taking Latin. As is customary, I went around to all my teachers before the surgery, just letting them know that I was about to miss a ton of class. I asked my Latin teacher if we were doing anything that Monday before Thanksgiving, assuming the answer would be a comforting No.
There was a test that day.
As far as the surgery itself, it wasn't anything to write home about. I went to sleep and probably experienced several days of anesthesia aftertaste—it smells rather like airplane gasoline, and though I've never had airplane gasoline in my mouth I'd imagine the tastes are similar. I got better.
Several weeks later, I made up the Latin test. I was on my own, in the seventh grade science room, a sanitary bright tiled place. I kept wondering why the test couldn't be waived for me. It didn't go well.
I believe I did fairly well academically in seventh grade, though I can't say for certain. In the spring, I dislocated my kneecap—the right one, which is currently resting above a very obvious Taylor Spatial Frame. This did not require missing school. Then I got mononucleosis (I'm still not sure where from) and missed six weeks of school. The experience was strikingly similar to the months of January and February, 2013. I stayed at home, my time marked by when issues of Entertainment Weekly would come through the door—in those days, the magazine still published Stephen King's column, a cause for great excitement. I was bored and though I thought I might be able to get things done, I never managed to motivate myself into actual productivity.
Eventually, I got better from that, too.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
I Finally Write About Pin Care!
It's time!
After months of vague references to the subject, I have arrived at my entry about pin care. For the single most terrifying aspect of the frame (aside from perhaps the thought that the pins would be, you know, going through the bone in the most literal sense of "going through the bone"), pin care has been blessedly low-key.
To start off this discussion, the basic idea behind pin care is that yes, the pins go through the skin. While the holes around the pin do heal up a little bit and the bleeding stops before too long, it is still important to keep those things cleaned out to fend off infection. Additionally, pin care serves a comfort-related function as well. The pin sites, at least the piano wire ones beneath the knee, have a tendency to develop calluses, which then are aggravated by any kind of motion. To stop all of this from happening, it helps to clean the gunk out from the pins.
In the beginning (we're talking late December and early January), pin care was a bit more of a show. We had a bottle of saline solution as well as a box of Q-tips. I believe the Q-tips had a fancier name which sounded vaguely medicinal, but Q-tips are Q-tips, fancy name or no. The saline was used to wet the Q-tip, which was then used to swipe away anything near the pin site. Simple as that, really. If I remember right, it may have stung a little bit, but nothing to write home about.
Before too long, I progressed to taking showers. Surprisingly, this had an actual effect on pin care, as the shower took care of wetting the pin site. If a pin site is wet, I've discovered, the gunk is easier to wipe away. Again, the procedure more or less consists of swiping everything down with the Q-tip.
About a month ago, I started transitioning into giving myself pin care. The new system is actually really simple. While showering, I make sure to get a washcloth good and soapy. I scrub down the pin sites, taking care to actually cover the pin sites in suds. I rinse them off. Then, once out of the shower, they get dried off. Because of the specialized nature of the drying and the requirement to reach smaller spaces, I need to use a washcloth to complete the task.
And that's it. Well, almost it. The final piece of the equation is that the pin sites do sometimes require some bonus help. Bonus help comes in the form of either antibacterial cream or vasoline, which helps the skin slide along the pin and reduces discomfort. Think of it like oiling a door hinge.
For the longest while, my parents were in charge of pin care. This was mostly due to my personal refusal to stare at, or glance at, or anything related to glancing at the pin sites. I didn't want to see them and one of the truths of pin care is you have to look at the pins you're caring for while administering said care. This took me out of the running.
There was also a time where I was willing to look at the pin sites but still could not provide my own care. The reasoning here is fairly simple. Sometimes, pin care hurts. Keeping the pin sites clear and trying to help them not cause pain sometimes involves a little bit of agression, pulling on particularly stubborn bits of callus or scab. While I can look at the pins, I don't have the heart to actually take care of the things.
This is where my father comes in. Unlike me, my father has actual medical training. And unlike me, he's not afraid to cause some soreness during pin care. I have had to tell him to stop before, but only a few times. Think of those as special occasions.
Part of the trick, I know, is that he has a bit less at stake if the cleaning hurts. Part of it is, he's just not as gentle as I am.
And that, dear readers, is my post on pin care. Obviously, for different frames and different doctors, pin care might very well look different. But—straight legs are going to be worth it, right?
Right.
After months of vague references to the subject, I have arrived at my entry about pin care. For the single most terrifying aspect of the frame (aside from perhaps the thought that the pins would be, you know, going through the bone in the most literal sense of "going through the bone"), pin care has been blessedly low-key.
To start off this discussion, the basic idea behind pin care is that yes, the pins go through the skin. While the holes around the pin do heal up a little bit and the bleeding stops before too long, it is still important to keep those things cleaned out to fend off infection. Additionally, pin care serves a comfort-related function as well. The pin sites, at least the piano wire ones beneath the knee, have a tendency to develop calluses, which then are aggravated by any kind of motion. To stop all of this from happening, it helps to clean the gunk out from the pins.
In the beginning (we're talking late December and early January), pin care was a bit more of a show. We had a bottle of saline solution as well as a box of Q-tips. I believe the Q-tips had a fancier name which sounded vaguely medicinal, but Q-tips are Q-tips, fancy name or no. The saline was used to wet the Q-tip, which was then used to swipe away anything near the pin site. Simple as that, really. If I remember right, it may have stung a little bit, but nothing to write home about.
Before too long, I progressed to taking showers. Surprisingly, this had an actual effect on pin care, as the shower took care of wetting the pin site. If a pin site is wet, I've discovered, the gunk is easier to wipe away. Again, the procedure more or less consists of swiping everything down with the Q-tip.
About a month ago, I started transitioning into giving myself pin care. The new system is actually really simple. While showering, I make sure to get a washcloth good and soapy. I scrub down the pin sites, taking care to actually cover the pin sites in suds. I rinse them off. Then, once out of the shower, they get dried off. Because of the specialized nature of the drying and the requirement to reach smaller spaces, I need to use a washcloth to complete the task.
And that's it. Well, almost it. The final piece of the equation is that the pin sites do sometimes require some bonus help. Bonus help comes in the form of either antibacterial cream or vasoline, which helps the skin slide along the pin and reduces discomfort. Think of it like oiling a door hinge.
For the longest while, my parents were in charge of pin care. This was mostly due to my personal refusal to stare at, or glance at, or anything related to glancing at the pin sites. I didn't want to see them and one of the truths of pin care is you have to look at the pins you're caring for while administering said care. This took me out of the running.
There was also a time where I was willing to look at the pin sites but still could not provide my own care. The reasoning here is fairly simple. Sometimes, pin care hurts. Keeping the pin sites clear and trying to help them not cause pain sometimes involves a little bit of agression, pulling on particularly stubborn bits of callus or scab. While I can look at the pins, I don't have the heart to actually take care of the things.
This is where my father comes in. Unlike me, my father has actual medical training. And unlike me, he's not afraid to cause some soreness during pin care. I have had to tell him to stop before, but only a few times. Think of those as special occasions.
Part of the trick, I know, is that he has a bit less at stake if the cleaning hurts. Part of it is, he's just not as gentle as I am.
And that, dear readers, is my post on pin care. Obviously, for different frames and different doctors, pin care might very well look different. But—straight legs are going to be worth it, right?
Right.
Monday, April 22, 2013
An Upbeat Post
The past few posts have been less than upbeat, thinking back on it. Granted, the past couple posts have been rather technical, and technical things related to pins going through bone tend to be a bit less than cheery, but hey—never hurts to have some positivity, right?
To answer my own question, no, it doesn't.
Which is why I think I'll write a post about some of the fun things I've been able to do while wearing a frame. To add to the challenge factor, these things are going to be relatively recent occurrences, within the last month or so. And, yes, there will be pictures.
But first and foremost, the most exciting event of my past month is probably Jurassic Park 3D. I am massively fond of all things dinosaur. Recently, I turned a Top Gear-happy brother to more quality BBC fare like Walking with Dinosaurs and its sequel series Walking with Beasts, both of which are on Netflix and both of which are completely worth checking out—for those who haven't seen them (and if you haven't, you've been sorely deprived), think classic nature documentary, except about prehistoric animals. It's a brilliant concept. Also, in order to cheer myself up after a rather long and depressing year of doing College Board-ordained biology as part of my AP Biology course, I have taken to including dinosaur references on everything I turn in for that class. Lucky for me, the teacher doesn't seem to mind at all. Actually, she seems to enjoy the touch.
So, getting myself back on track, not only can you enjoy Netflix and dinosaurs while stuck with the frame, but you can go to movies. And not only can you go to movies, but you can go to movies in IMAX—not the digital variety, but the real IMAX, projected on film (look it up). About a week and a half ago, I managed to persuade my family to go to Jurassic Park in a real IMAX theater in 3D. It was incredible. By far the most intense screening of Jurassic Park I've ever experienced. The sound system did a marvelous job playing the John Williams score, the dinosaurs were enormous, the T. rex attacking the Jeep sequence was breathtaking…
It was the kind of thing that helps you forget that you have a large metal frame on your leg.
Additionally in the past couple weeks, as stated a couple times in the previous two posts, I returned to Virginia. While in Virginia, I got to drive up in the mountains. For those wondering, no, I did not take the wheel (I am, as of now, unlicensed and not allowed to learn until the frame comes off). But I did get to see mountains.
To answer my own question, no, it doesn't.
Which is why I think I'll write a post about some of the fun things I've been able to do while wearing a frame. To add to the challenge factor, these things are going to be relatively recent occurrences, within the last month or so. And, yes, there will be pictures.
But first and foremost, the most exciting event of my past month is probably Jurassic Park 3D. I am massively fond of all things dinosaur. Recently, I turned a Top Gear-happy brother to more quality BBC fare like Walking with Dinosaurs and its sequel series Walking with Beasts, both of which are on Netflix and both of which are completely worth checking out—for those who haven't seen them (and if you haven't, you've been sorely deprived), think classic nature documentary, except about prehistoric animals. It's a brilliant concept. Also, in order to cheer myself up after a rather long and depressing year of doing College Board-ordained biology as part of my AP Biology course, I have taken to including dinosaur references on everything I turn in for that class. Lucky for me, the teacher doesn't seem to mind at all. Actually, she seems to enjoy the touch.
So, getting myself back on track, not only can you enjoy Netflix and dinosaurs while stuck with the frame, but you can go to movies. And not only can you go to movies, but you can go to movies in IMAX—not the digital variety, but the real IMAX, projected on film (look it up). About a week and a half ago, I managed to persuade my family to go to Jurassic Park in a real IMAX theater in 3D. It was incredible. By far the most intense screening of Jurassic Park I've ever experienced. The sound system did a marvelous job playing the John Williams score, the dinosaurs were enormous, the T. rex attacking the Jeep sequence was breathtaking…
It was the kind of thing that helps you forget that you have a large metal frame on your leg.
Additionally in the past couple weeks, as stated a couple times in the previous two posts, I returned to Virginia. While in Virginia, I got to drive up in the mountains. For those wondering, no, I did not take the wheel (I am, as of now, unlicensed and not allowed to learn until the frame comes off). But I did get to see mountains.
I am immensely fond of mountains.
All I can say is that mountains possess a certain majesty which I find remarkable. And I can tell you that I was raised surrounded by mountains, and that they are peaceful and when I am in the mountains I am content and happy and at easy.
In short, I like mountains a whole ton better than I like metal leg frames.
Now, the city of Charlottesville is fifteen, twenty minutes from the mountains (I think). Yes, that is my transition into the next part of my upbeat post.
First off, I got to see old friends while in Charlottesville. There were definitely a few moments where I had to stop myself from running with this thing on. No matter how confident I may feel that, if the frame can put up with the abuse I deal it by walking on the leg, it won't be hurt by a few attempted running steps, my mother would not agree and the last thing I want to do is to get into a frame-related disagreement with my mother, mostly because she'd win. And that was wonderful, too.
Not all was warm and cheery in Charlottesville. While I was down there escaping from the yet-to-cease Minnesota winter (it snowed again…today), there was a storm which dumped five inches of snow on the area. Feeling cautious, I scaled the day at the University of Virginia back a little bit. Instead of doing activities beyond the dorm tour, I just did the dorm tour.
The tour involved walking more or less from one end of grounds to another. This was, up until then, by far the longest distance I had attempted on the frame.
The frame held up just fine.
I will confess, I was feeling a bit apprehensive about the size of the place, an if I go here I'll actually need to walk that far?!? incredulousness. Later on, I realized that I wouldn't actually be going to college with a frame on my leg.
And (a couple steps later) my college process, a process which kicked into high gear as I was psyching myself up for the horribly painful ordeal of the Taylor Spatial Frame, ended as I began anticipating the removal of the frame.
I'm headed back to Charlottesville in the fall, no frame in tow, ready to begin anew.
In short, there are a solid number of dark days in the world of one who has taken on the Taylor Spatial Frame (or an external fixator), days which seem never-ending and dull and pointless. But while the frame can and does interfere with your ability to walk, move and go through doorways unimpeded, there are some days where the frame becomes rather secondary.
Such as days when you watch Jurassic Park in IMAX.
If you asked me why, exactly, I don't think I could articulate it very well at all.
In short, I like mountains a whole ton better than I like metal leg frames.
Now, the city of Charlottesville is fifteen, twenty minutes from the mountains (I think). Yes, that is my transition into the next part of my upbeat post.
First off, I got to see old friends while in Charlottesville. There were definitely a few moments where I had to stop myself from running with this thing on. No matter how confident I may feel that, if the frame can put up with the abuse I deal it by walking on the leg, it won't be hurt by a few attempted running steps, my mother would not agree and the last thing I want to do is to get into a frame-related disagreement with my mother, mostly because she'd win. And that was wonderful, too.
Not all was warm and cheery in Charlottesville. While I was down there escaping from the yet-to-cease Minnesota winter (it snowed again…today), there was a storm which dumped five inches of snow on the area. Feeling cautious, I scaled the day at the University of Virginia back a little bit. Instead of doing activities beyond the dorm tour, I just did the dorm tour.
The tour involved walking more or less from one end of grounds to another. This was, up until then, by far the longest distance I had attempted on the frame.
The frame held up just fine.
I will confess, I was feeling a bit apprehensive about the size of the place, an if I go here I'll actually need to walk that far?!? incredulousness. Later on, I realized that I wouldn't actually be going to college with a frame on my leg.
And (a couple steps later) my college process, a process which kicked into high gear as I was psyching myself up for the horribly painful ordeal of the Taylor Spatial Frame, ended as I began anticipating the removal of the frame.
I'm headed back to Charlottesville in the fall, no frame in tow, ready to begin anew.
In short, there are a solid number of dark days in the world of one who has taken on the Taylor Spatial Frame (or an external fixator), days which seem never-ending and dull and pointless. But while the frame can and does interfere with your ability to walk, move and go through doorways unimpeded, there are some days where the frame becomes rather secondary.
Such as days when you watch Jurassic Park in IMAX.
Comparative Frames
March 22-23, 2013
Passing through airport security with a Taylor Spatial Frame in tow was a rather exciting development but, to be honest, it didn't compare to the general excitement associated with a return to Virginia. The trip spanned over a weekend. Arrive Friday, leave early Tuesday morning. Monday was supposedly a day at the University of Virginia; Saturday and Sunday were my days for myself. The bulk of the trip would be spent at a friend's house.
Given that the frame was tagging along, I really couldn't have stayed at a better place (this is ignoring all the other benefits of staying there for the weekend, namely that the family is really, really, really nice). Way back when, I mentioned that one of my friend's mother had broken her leg and subsequently worn a frame for months.
Yes, I stayed with that friend.
The moment I arrived, her mother stopped me and asked me to show off the frame. There were then immediate exclamations over how nice and non-medieval-torture-device my frame was. As it turns out, I seem to have had it good these past few months.
How? Well…
1) My frame is shiny and sleek.
Shiny and sleek on a relative scale, to be sure, but the thing does have a nifty black paint job and the triangular arrangement of the struts is rather aesthetically appealing. When I beheld the thing for the first time, I can remember being impressed with how good it looked. This was, of course, before the pins were added to the equation, at which point it looked less good.
After a few hours of talking comparative frames, I learned that not all frames are created equal visually. Some frames, you see, lack even a simple coat of black paint and are rather just unpainted metal, creating a look more along the lines of "medieval torture device" than "modern medical marvel which costs as much as a small car."
Also, a quick note here—whereas I have a bona fide Taylor Spatial Frame, my friend's mother had a normal external fixator (the struts on her device were fixed in position and could only extend vertically).
2) In the grand scheme of things, I don't have too many pins in my leg.
In all, I have seven pins in the leg: five half-pins (6 mm) and two piano wire pins. My friend's mother had ten pins, most of which were the piano wire varieties. The half-pins don't hurt at all, except for sometimes when I fiddle with the pins (I'm not supposed to do that). The piano wire pins, along with my hips and sometimes my knees, are among the parts of my body that hurt when aggravated. How aggravated, you might ask. Well…motion. More specifically, any motion involving the bending or straightening of the leg.
3) I have had zero infections (yet).
This one comes with a bit of an asterisk, as last doctor's appointment Dr. Sundberg ordered me to start ingesting antibiotic pills, which led a week and a half of me reveling in my ability to dry-swallow pills, much to the brothers' amazement. The redness around the pin sites went down, I was happy.
From what I understand, having an infection is not fun.
4) I can get water on my pins.
Technically speaking, the first few days of wearing this frame the device was not allowed to get wet. When you're as drugged out of your mind as I was for those first few days and as unable to use your lower body, let alone get out of bed, not getting the frame wet is not a big deal.
These days, however, my ability to get moisture on the frame is tremendously beneficial, mostly since I like being able to clean myself. Additionally, most of my pin care (I'll post tomorrow on pin care, so more on that later) takes place in the shower. The shower saves a ton of time.
Apparently, if you can't get water on the frame, showering is still possible. The frame just needs to be covered in a garbage bag.
5) I don't have to go into the hospital for pin care.
This is a big one. When my pins need help, I can either recruit my father to provide that help, which is pretty straightforward, depending on his travel schedule, or I can do it myself, which is sometimes easy, depending on how queasy I'm feeling. What I don't need are scheduled appointments. I don't need to be driven to the hospital (or clinic). It's a simple at-home deal, pins, washcloth, sometimes Q-tips.
6) My pin care does not involve hydrogen peroxide.
My single biggest fear heading into the procedure was that pin care would burn. My first round with pin care was just saline and Q-tips. It didn't hurt at all. The next few rounds were water and Q-tips. I was told that the burning sensation I'd read about came from hydrogen peroxide. Lacking in common sense, I more or less blindly assumed that pin care with hydrogen peroxide is a thing of the past.
Well…not so fast, it seems. From what I understand which, granted, is not much, the method of pin care you receive varies from brand of frame to brand of frame and doctor to doctor. With the Taylor Spatial Frame and Dr. Sundberg, my pin care has been pretty laid-back. However, for my friend's mother, it seems like not only did pin care involve having to go into the hospital (remember, she wasn't allowed to get the frame wet), but also utilized hydrogen peroxide.
In short, I'm feeling really lucky to have had the frame I had.
With that said, the circumstances between the two frames could not have been more different. Mine was a surgery planned months in advance, an eleven degree correction mapped out on the computer and implemented over the course of weeks. My friend's mother's was an emergency procedure after some form of incident involving a lawnmower and a hill which led to a shattered ankle. Hers was to hold bones in place while they healed from a traumatic break; mine was…well, also to hold bones in place, but more importantly to prevent future damage due to crooked legs.
But, and here's a big one, there are a lot of really basic similarities. You ready for another list?
1) Both frames are annoying, cumbersome devices.
I don't know the actual measurements of my frame or of hers, but suffice to say it is a big, annoying device with the approximate subtlety of a small log. Frames tend to crash into things such as walls, door frames, chairs, tables, cars, people, etc. Often, such a collision leads to a reaction of embarrassment tinged with regret, particularly if the object collided with can feel pain.
2) Both frames hurt.
My mantra throughout this entire process has been that the frame doesn't hurt, not really. At once, this is true and untrue. True, the frame does not hurt without provocation. Untrue, the frame doesn't hurt at all. My problem has been acknowledging that the piano wire pin emerging just beneath my leg is actually a part of the device rather than its own independent evil entity.
Here's the deal: yes, this thing hurts. The pin pulls on my skin when the joint moves, causing some measure of discomfort. In my case, it does not hurt enough for me to justify taking medicine to take care of the problem and, luckily, I only have the one aggravating pin site.
The other frame had a pin which went into the ankle. It was a piano wire pin. Just…imagine that.
Long story short: if you get a Taylor Spatial Frame or an external fixator, it will probably hurt. The degree of hurting, however, does vary and you could very well wind up with a comparatively peaceful frame (like I did).
3) Both frames interfered with walking and other such activity for a while.
This is, I think, equally self-explanatory. Part of this is the pain. Part of this is the geometric properties these devices possess. Part of this is getting over the realization that you're walking on bone which is very much broken. Part of this is trying to obey your doctor's orders to the best of your ability.
But once you get a frame place onto/into your leg, don't expect to walk right away. You won't have to relearn how to walk, probably, but there will be tentative first steps, an "I'm doing this right?" moment and an "I'm doing this right!" moment and times where you watch everybody else walking around and wish you could, too.
And, of course, a time where you can walk.
4) Going off some assumptions here, but in both cases the removal of the frame comes with tremendous relief.
At least, I've been assured that there will be relief. I can't wait. Less than two weeks and I'll be able to touch the back of my leg to the mattress of my bed again and maybe even to the grass outside and I'll be able to kneel (I haven't been able to kneel for months, isn't that odd?) and…
And, to some extent, I'll be free.
Passing through airport security with a Taylor Spatial Frame in tow was a rather exciting development but, to be honest, it didn't compare to the general excitement associated with a return to Virginia. The trip spanned over a weekend. Arrive Friday, leave early Tuesday morning. Monday was supposedly a day at the University of Virginia; Saturday and Sunday were my days for myself. The bulk of the trip would be spent at a friend's house.
Given that the frame was tagging along, I really couldn't have stayed at a better place (this is ignoring all the other benefits of staying there for the weekend, namely that the family is really, really, really nice). Way back when, I mentioned that one of my friend's mother had broken her leg and subsequently worn a frame for months.
Yes, I stayed with that friend.
The moment I arrived, her mother stopped me and asked me to show off the frame. There were then immediate exclamations over how nice and non-medieval-torture-device my frame was. As it turns out, I seem to have had it good these past few months.
How? Well…
1) My frame is shiny and sleek.
Shiny and sleek on a relative scale, to be sure, but the thing does have a nifty black paint job and the triangular arrangement of the struts is rather aesthetically appealing. When I beheld the thing for the first time, I can remember being impressed with how good it looked. This was, of course, before the pins were added to the equation, at which point it looked less good.
After a few hours of talking comparative frames, I learned that not all frames are created equal visually. Some frames, you see, lack even a simple coat of black paint and are rather just unpainted metal, creating a look more along the lines of "medieval torture device" than "modern medical marvel which costs as much as a small car."
Also, a quick note here—whereas I have a bona fide Taylor Spatial Frame, my friend's mother had a normal external fixator (the struts on her device were fixed in position and could only extend vertically).
2) In the grand scheme of things, I don't have too many pins in my leg.
In all, I have seven pins in the leg: five half-pins (6 mm) and two piano wire pins. My friend's mother had ten pins, most of which were the piano wire varieties. The half-pins don't hurt at all, except for sometimes when I fiddle with the pins (I'm not supposed to do that). The piano wire pins, along with my hips and sometimes my knees, are among the parts of my body that hurt when aggravated. How aggravated, you might ask. Well…motion. More specifically, any motion involving the bending or straightening of the leg.
3) I have had zero infections (yet).
This one comes with a bit of an asterisk, as last doctor's appointment Dr. Sundberg ordered me to start ingesting antibiotic pills, which led a week and a half of me reveling in my ability to dry-swallow pills, much to the brothers' amazement. The redness around the pin sites went down, I was happy.
From what I understand, having an infection is not fun.
4) I can get water on my pins.
Technically speaking, the first few days of wearing this frame the device was not allowed to get wet. When you're as drugged out of your mind as I was for those first few days and as unable to use your lower body, let alone get out of bed, not getting the frame wet is not a big deal.
These days, however, my ability to get moisture on the frame is tremendously beneficial, mostly since I like being able to clean myself. Additionally, most of my pin care (I'll post tomorrow on pin care, so more on that later) takes place in the shower. The shower saves a ton of time.
Apparently, if you can't get water on the frame, showering is still possible. The frame just needs to be covered in a garbage bag.
5) I don't have to go into the hospital for pin care.
This is a big one. When my pins need help, I can either recruit my father to provide that help, which is pretty straightforward, depending on his travel schedule, or I can do it myself, which is sometimes easy, depending on how queasy I'm feeling. What I don't need are scheduled appointments. I don't need to be driven to the hospital (or clinic). It's a simple at-home deal, pins, washcloth, sometimes Q-tips.
6) My pin care does not involve hydrogen peroxide.
My single biggest fear heading into the procedure was that pin care would burn. My first round with pin care was just saline and Q-tips. It didn't hurt at all. The next few rounds were water and Q-tips. I was told that the burning sensation I'd read about came from hydrogen peroxide. Lacking in common sense, I more or less blindly assumed that pin care with hydrogen peroxide is a thing of the past.
Well…not so fast, it seems. From what I understand which, granted, is not much, the method of pin care you receive varies from brand of frame to brand of frame and doctor to doctor. With the Taylor Spatial Frame and Dr. Sundberg, my pin care has been pretty laid-back. However, for my friend's mother, it seems like not only did pin care involve having to go into the hospital (remember, she wasn't allowed to get the frame wet), but also utilized hydrogen peroxide.
In short, I'm feeling really lucky to have had the frame I had.
With that said, the circumstances between the two frames could not have been more different. Mine was a surgery planned months in advance, an eleven degree correction mapped out on the computer and implemented over the course of weeks. My friend's mother's was an emergency procedure after some form of incident involving a lawnmower and a hill which led to a shattered ankle. Hers was to hold bones in place while they healed from a traumatic break; mine was…well, also to hold bones in place, but more importantly to prevent future damage due to crooked legs.
But, and here's a big one, there are a lot of really basic similarities. You ready for another list?
1) Both frames are annoying, cumbersome devices.
I don't know the actual measurements of my frame or of hers, but suffice to say it is a big, annoying device with the approximate subtlety of a small log. Frames tend to crash into things such as walls, door frames, chairs, tables, cars, people, etc. Often, such a collision leads to a reaction of embarrassment tinged with regret, particularly if the object collided with can feel pain.
2) Both frames hurt.
My mantra throughout this entire process has been that the frame doesn't hurt, not really. At once, this is true and untrue. True, the frame does not hurt without provocation. Untrue, the frame doesn't hurt at all. My problem has been acknowledging that the piano wire pin emerging just beneath my leg is actually a part of the device rather than its own independent evil entity.
Here's the deal: yes, this thing hurts. The pin pulls on my skin when the joint moves, causing some measure of discomfort. In my case, it does not hurt enough for me to justify taking medicine to take care of the problem and, luckily, I only have the one aggravating pin site.
The other frame had a pin which went into the ankle. It was a piano wire pin. Just…imagine that.
Long story short: if you get a Taylor Spatial Frame or an external fixator, it will probably hurt. The degree of hurting, however, does vary and you could very well wind up with a comparatively peaceful frame (like I did).
3) Both frames interfered with walking and other such activity for a while.
This is, I think, equally self-explanatory. Part of this is the pain. Part of this is the geometric properties these devices possess. Part of this is getting over the realization that you're walking on bone which is very much broken. Part of this is trying to obey your doctor's orders to the best of your ability.
But once you get a frame place onto/into your leg, don't expect to walk right away. You won't have to relearn how to walk, probably, but there will be tentative first steps, an "I'm doing this right?" moment and an "I'm doing this right!" moment and times where you watch everybody else walking around and wish you could, too.
And, of course, a time where you can walk.
4) Going off some assumptions here, but in both cases the removal of the frame comes with tremendous relief.
At least, I've been assured that there will be relief. I can't wait. Less than two weeks and I'll be able to touch the back of my leg to the mattress of my bed again and maybe even to the grass outside and I'll be able to kneel (I haven't been able to kneel for months, isn't that odd?) and…
And, to some extent, I'll be free.
Frames and Airport Security
The reason why you try to keep a blog up-to-date is so you don't get all behind schedule with several stories to tell, each weeks old. Am I tempted just to let this one slide and not go through the effort to share this story? A bit. But is it actually highly relevant to the blog in general? Yes.
Part One: Friday, March 22, 2013—Gingerbread Men
I don't know if I've mentioned this here before, but though I presently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota my hometown is Charlottesville, Virginia, notable for housing the University of Virginia and Thomas Jefferson's Monticello. Every so often, I do my best to get back down there and spring break this year seemed like a great opportunity. To make things even more persuasive, I had gotten into UVa and there was an admitted students' day I could attend during the break.
In short, there was plenty of reason to head down to Charlottesville.
For those of you who don't know, Minneapolis and Charlottesville are not exactly close to each other. If your definition of driving distance is something along the lines of "twenty-four hours or less by car," then the two are within driving distance; if not, well, it's time to take the plane.
Taking the plane, unfortunately, involves going through airport security with a leg that will flunk the metal detector in a heartbeat or less.
My home airport, Minneapolis-St. Paul International, is one of the Delta hubs. In short, it's got a lot of traffic, on top of being the major airport attached to a major metropolitan area, population 3.2 million or so. Security lines, therefore, tend to be rather long. This was a concern.
Luckily, I had my father along. My father has infinitely more travel experience than I do and was able to solve the line problem by simply not electing to go through the long security line. As it turns out, there is a hidden security checkpoint in the airport. Accessing it involves taking a tram ride (I love trains, so that's cool) and a couple escalators (also cool). Once you get up there, it's a straight shot to the metal detector.
Which, of course, is where the frame tends to do less well.
Shockingly, making my way through airport security was much easier than anticipated. I explained to the TSA officials that I didn't want to go through the metal detector and instead I got to utilize the fancy x-ray device which garnered so much publicity last year (or was it two years ago?) for supposed privacy violations. It was either that or the pat-down.
The airport security scanning device is fairly simple to pass through. One simply stands with feet shoulder-width apart, as demonstrated by the helpful yellow footprints on the floor, raises arms like demonstrated in the picture, holds for less than a second, walks out when told. What appears on the read-out is the outline of a person that looks suspiciously like a gingerbread man. If you have a suspicious substance or device on your body, that appears in yellow, like a decoration.
You can bet the frame showed up in yellow, which meant that it was time for part two of airport security. The TSA officials told me to walk over to a station where they wiped my hands and wiped the frame. I had to lift the pant leg to show them the device. Sometimes, simply seeing the device was all I needed to move along, as, let's be honest, the odds of one hiding stuff in/on the frame are minimalistic. Sometimes they needed to swipe samples off the frame. But, regardless, the ordeal was almost done.
To be fair, "ordeal" is a bit of a strong word. Airport security with a frame is one of those things which sounds awful but, in reality, isn't, assuming you're going through an airport large and sophisticated enough to have people-scanning machines beyond the humble metal detector. First off, the gingerbread man software readout—not very privacy violating. Second off, the swiping down of frame and hands is not very taxing.
Perhaps most critically, though, was that the security people I dealt with at MSP and a few days later at the Richmond International Airport were really nice, helpful and understanding. When the results of the scanner/x-ray deal came back and I needed additional screening, they carried my bags for me.
Also, the frame got plenty of attention for looking big and scary and somewhat painful. I suspect that the frame's two favorite things in its dim sort of existence are holding bones together and getting attention for being as frame-y as it is.
Part Two: Sunday, April 7, 2013—The Frame Flunks a Metal Detector
My trip to Charlottesville was not the only college-related excursion I made to Virginia within the past little bit. About two weeks ago, I made the journey to Williamsburg, Virginia to spend the weekend on campus at the College of William & Mary, an experience which resulted in me getting a really nice sweatshirt and helped me make up my mind on my educational plans for the next four years.
The trip down to Williamsburg involved passing through security at Minneapolis. Once again, the frame had no problems making it onto the plane.
The trip back to Minneapolis was a bit different.
I boarded at the Williamsburg-Newport News International Airport. If by "international" you mean "Atlanta, Charlotte or Philadelphia," then Williamsburg-Newport News is about as international as you can get. It has two little wings worth of gates. In order to get into either wing, you have to pass through security.
In case you haven't got the picture yet, Williamsburg-Newport News is one of those airports which is neither large nor sophisticated enough to have people-scanning machines beyond the humble metal detector. Things were not looking good for the frame.
When I got to the metal detector, I told the people at security I would fail that particular test.
They had me go through the metal detector anyway.
Let me tell you, with a couple pounds of metal fixed to my leg, I failed that metal detector hard-core. Walked right in and produced some nice beeping.
As a potential security threat, I got to be patted down. As far as the experience goes, it wasn't my favorite. When you reflect on the necessity of the procedure, it doesn't seem that bad as far as privacy goes. But…it's still awkward. I'd much rather have pictures taken than be patted down. The other trick with the pat-down is that, during the entire procedure, I felt bad because it was almost like I was a legitimate security threat. And, all around me, frame-free people were passing through the metal detector without a problem (except for an old lady who forgot to take her earring out, resulting in a return trip through the detector).
The other thing with a pat-down is it takes a lot of time. I hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, planning to grab a bite to eat before getting on the plane. Since clearing security took a lot longer than anticipated (at least five or ten people made it through in the time I failed a metal detector and received my first-ever pat-down).
On the way home, I still felt ridiculously excited that I'd set off a metal detector. I'm not sure why.
But, regardless, the morals of the story:
1) Frames can make it through airport security, too
2) Avoid smaller airports like Williamsburg-Newport News
3) Airport security people are nice (as a general rule), as are metal detector alternatives
4) If you can avoid getting a pat-down (or a frame), that might not be a bad idea
Part One: Friday, March 22, 2013—Gingerbread Men
I don't know if I've mentioned this here before, but though I presently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota my hometown is Charlottesville, Virginia, notable for housing the University of Virginia and Thomas Jefferson's Monticello. Every so often, I do my best to get back down there and spring break this year seemed like a great opportunity. To make things even more persuasive, I had gotten into UVa and there was an admitted students' day I could attend during the break.
In short, there was plenty of reason to head down to Charlottesville.
For those of you who don't know, Minneapolis and Charlottesville are not exactly close to each other. If your definition of driving distance is something along the lines of "twenty-four hours or less by car," then the two are within driving distance; if not, well, it's time to take the plane.
Taking the plane, unfortunately, involves going through airport security with a leg that will flunk the metal detector in a heartbeat or less.
My home airport, Minneapolis-St. Paul International, is one of the Delta hubs. In short, it's got a lot of traffic, on top of being the major airport attached to a major metropolitan area, population 3.2 million or so. Security lines, therefore, tend to be rather long. This was a concern.
Luckily, I had my father along. My father has infinitely more travel experience than I do and was able to solve the line problem by simply not electing to go through the long security line. As it turns out, there is a hidden security checkpoint in the airport. Accessing it involves taking a tram ride (I love trains, so that's cool) and a couple escalators (also cool). Once you get up there, it's a straight shot to the metal detector.
Which, of course, is where the frame tends to do less well.
Shockingly, making my way through airport security was much easier than anticipated. I explained to the TSA officials that I didn't want to go through the metal detector and instead I got to utilize the fancy x-ray device which garnered so much publicity last year (or was it two years ago?) for supposed privacy violations. It was either that or the pat-down.
The airport security scanning device is fairly simple to pass through. One simply stands with feet shoulder-width apart, as demonstrated by the helpful yellow footprints on the floor, raises arms like demonstrated in the picture, holds for less than a second, walks out when told. What appears on the read-out is the outline of a person that looks suspiciously like a gingerbread man. If you have a suspicious substance or device on your body, that appears in yellow, like a decoration.
You can bet the frame showed up in yellow, which meant that it was time for part two of airport security. The TSA officials told me to walk over to a station where they wiped my hands and wiped the frame. I had to lift the pant leg to show them the device. Sometimes, simply seeing the device was all I needed to move along, as, let's be honest, the odds of one hiding stuff in/on the frame are minimalistic. Sometimes they needed to swipe samples off the frame. But, regardless, the ordeal was almost done.
To be fair, "ordeal" is a bit of a strong word. Airport security with a frame is one of those things which sounds awful but, in reality, isn't, assuming you're going through an airport large and sophisticated enough to have people-scanning machines beyond the humble metal detector. First off, the gingerbread man software readout—not very privacy violating. Second off, the swiping down of frame and hands is not very taxing.
Perhaps most critically, though, was that the security people I dealt with at MSP and a few days later at the Richmond International Airport were really nice, helpful and understanding. When the results of the scanner/x-ray deal came back and I needed additional screening, they carried my bags for me.
Also, the frame got plenty of attention for looking big and scary and somewhat painful. I suspect that the frame's two favorite things in its dim sort of existence are holding bones together and getting attention for being as frame-y as it is.
Part Two: Sunday, April 7, 2013—The Frame Flunks a Metal Detector
My trip to Charlottesville was not the only college-related excursion I made to Virginia within the past little bit. About two weeks ago, I made the journey to Williamsburg, Virginia to spend the weekend on campus at the College of William & Mary, an experience which resulted in me getting a really nice sweatshirt and helped me make up my mind on my educational plans for the next four years.
The trip down to Williamsburg involved passing through security at Minneapolis. Once again, the frame had no problems making it onto the plane.
The trip back to Minneapolis was a bit different.
I boarded at the Williamsburg-Newport News International Airport. If by "international" you mean "Atlanta, Charlotte or Philadelphia," then Williamsburg-Newport News is about as international as you can get. It has two little wings worth of gates. In order to get into either wing, you have to pass through security.
In case you haven't got the picture yet, Williamsburg-Newport News is one of those airports which is neither large nor sophisticated enough to have people-scanning machines beyond the humble metal detector. Things were not looking good for the frame.
When I got to the metal detector, I told the people at security I would fail that particular test.
They had me go through the metal detector anyway.
Let me tell you, with a couple pounds of metal fixed to my leg, I failed that metal detector hard-core. Walked right in and produced some nice beeping.
As a potential security threat, I got to be patted down. As far as the experience goes, it wasn't my favorite. When you reflect on the necessity of the procedure, it doesn't seem that bad as far as privacy goes. But…it's still awkward. I'd much rather have pictures taken than be patted down. The other trick with the pat-down is that, during the entire procedure, I felt bad because it was almost like I was a legitimate security threat. And, all around me, frame-free people were passing through the metal detector without a problem (except for an old lady who forgot to take her earring out, resulting in a return trip through the detector).
The other thing with a pat-down is it takes a lot of time. I hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, planning to grab a bite to eat before getting on the plane. Since clearing security took a lot longer than anticipated (at least five or ten people made it through in the time I failed a metal detector and received my first-ever pat-down).
On the way home, I still felt ridiculously excited that I'd set off a metal detector. I'm not sure why.
But, regardless, the morals of the story:
1) Frames can make it through airport security, too
2) Avoid smaller airports like Williamsburg-Newport News
3) Airport security people are nice (as a general rule), as are metal detector alternatives
4) If you can avoid getting a pat-down (or a frame), that might not be a bad idea
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Some Notes
The other day, I was waiting with a younger brother to be picked up. For some reason or another, probably boredom, I had pulled up the leg of my sweatpants to expose the frame. One of the struts is comparatively loose and I have discovered that, by rattling it, it makes a fun and interesting sound. There are other means to achieve this rattling sound—namely, walking—but provoking the noise from the metal cage in a controlled environment is by far the preferred way to experience all the various sound effects the frame has to offer.
Long story short, the brother asked me to cover the frame up.
This confused me somewhat.
You see, after months of having the thing in my leg, I have ceased to think of the frame as anything out of the ordinary, except for when it interferes with movement or bumps against things it should not bump against. Even months later, I have a tendency to allow the frame to collide with all sorts of inanimate objects, often with less than desirable results (discomfort, mostly, depending on the angle of impact). I'm just really used to it.
I still get asked if it hurts, having the frame in my leg. My response is always the same: no, it doesn't. I can't feel it at all.
Well, this is not entirely true—there are some motion-aggravated twinges and discomforts. However, for the sake of this discussion, it is. The frame was put into my leg and for days not only was I on some really heavy pain medicines, but I had an epidural in. I could not feel anything. The epidural came out and I was still on some really heavy pain medicines. Eventually, I came off the medicine, and by then I guess I was used to it.
What I'm trying to get at is that by now, for all day-to-day intents and purposes, the frame is nothing more and nothing less than a geometric extension of my leg. There are long periods of time where I forget that it's in at all. My routines have barely changed. I'm living a pretty ordinary life.
This is, I think, why Leg+Frame has been so woefully neglected the past while. I spent forever on the couch but steadily improved to the point where I could walk with the walker, and then to the point where I could walk without the walker. And with walking came the sense that this was nothing out of the ordinary. And if this was nothing out of the ordinary, well, my desire to write entries here went down a lot. I just couldn't think of anything interesting.
I now have less than two weeks to go with this hunk of metal protruding from my bones—May 3rd, 7:30 AM (for a while, due to a failure in hearing, I mistakenly believed the scheduled time was 7:30 PM, much to my parents' amusement/derision). There are still some stories to tell here, some observations about life with a frame to go.
I just think it's interesting. Months in and I'm no longer disgusted by the sheer thought of this device (I was earlier, which was why I waited as long as I did to have the procedure). Others still are, to varying extents. Maybe the device is not as everyday as I've started to think it is?
Long story short, the brother asked me to cover the frame up.
This confused me somewhat.
You see, after months of having the thing in my leg, I have ceased to think of the frame as anything out of the ordinary, except for when it interferes with movement or bumps against things it should not bump against. Even months later, I have a tendency to allow the frame to collide with all sorts of inanimate objects, often with less than desirable results (discomfort, mostly, depending on the angle of impact). I'm just really used to it.
I still get asked if it hurts, having the frame in my leg. My response is always the same: no, it doesn't. I can't feel it at all.
Well, this is not entirely true—there are some motion-aggravated twinges and discomforts. However, for the sake of this discussion, it is. The frame was put into my leg and for days not only was I on some really heavy pain medicines, but I had an epidural in. I could not feel anything. The epidural came out and I was still on some really heavy pain medicines. Eventually, I came off the medicine, and by then I guess I was used to it.
What I'm trying to get at is that by now, for all day-to-day intents and purposes, the frame is nothing more and nothing less than a geometric extension of my leg. There are long periods of time where I forget that it's in at all. My routines have barely changed. I'm living a pretty ordinary life.
This is, I think, why Leg+Frame has been so woefully neglected the past while. I spent forever on the couch but steadily improved to the point where I could walk with the walker, and then to the point where I could walk without the walker. And with walking came the sense that this was nothing out of the ordinary. And if this was nothing out of the ordinary, well, my desire to write entries here went down a lot. I just couldn't think of anything interesting.
I now have less than two weeks to go with this hunk of metal protruding from my bones—May 3rd, 7:30 AM (for a while, due to a failure in hearing, I mistakenly believed the scheduled time was 7:30 PM, much to my parents' amusement/derision). There are still some stories to tell here, some observations about life with a frame to go.
I just think it's interesting. Months in and I'm no longer disgusted by the sheer thought of this device (I was earlier, which was why I waited as long as I did to have the procedure). Others still are, to varying extents. Maybe the device is not as everyday as I've started to think it is?
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Endgame
I'm not sure if there's anything that lasts forever. Certainly there are some things I'd like to last as long as humanly possible, things (people, mostly) I don't want to imagine life without knowing or having contact with. There are other things which are, by definition, transitory.
On December 26, I entered into a sort of living arrangement with my Taylor Spatial Frame, more commonly referred to as my buddy. I knew there was about an eleven degree correction to make to my leg, that the frame would get the job done in a couple weeks, that it would be a part of my life—and my leg—for another several months.
Some things are transitory.
In less than a month now, I will be permanently parting from the frame. Just like I was warned going into this whole process that the placing of the frame wouldn't be pretty and there would be pain, I've been warned by Dr. Sundberg that this will hurt a bit and that I will be wearing a knee immobilizer for a couple weeks. You see, the pins are coated in chemicals which promote bone growth, which is apparently the source of my future discomfort. And once the pins are removed I will be able to show of x-rays of my tibia with holes drilled through it.
I can't wait.
Am I nervous? Yes, I am. Every time I have surgery I tend to get a bit concerned. Along with a strong whiff of airplane gasoline, that's one of the side-effects of anesthesia. I also don't like the sound of not being comfortable. But the freedom…
For the past months, I have been limited to a ridiculous extent. No running. Be careful on stairs. Don't slip. Make sure to scrub the pin sites in the shower. Sleeping positions are dictated by the mood of the buddy. I've bumped against furniture, walls, door frames, people. The back of my calf has not felt the grass or even the mattress of my bed in months.
My most recent appointment with Dr. Sundberg was on April 8, just more than a week ago. He took another x-ray, looked at it, told me there were still a few weeks to go. He pointed out specific spots where he needed to see some more bone filling in before taking the device off. He still asked me when I wanted the frame removed.
I replied, April 26. In the time leading up to that appointment, my patience had worn beyond thin and I no longer cared about if the frame was taken off in the middle of the school day or not. As soon as possible was fine by me.
He informed me that April 26 might be a tad early. Two weeks from the appointment simply was not enough time for the bone to make the final bit of progress.
My next reply was May 3.
As of now, I'm scheduled to go in for x-rays on April 29 to ensure that the May 3 operating room date will hold. My fingers are rather tightly crossed that it will. Then the frame will be off my leg and onto its future life, in which it will be reused, I believe in Ecuador. I will say, I'm glad that somebody other than myself is getting use out of the device. As infuriating as it is, I have no doubts that this experience will transform my life for the better.
But, for now, I have a couple weeks of waiting to go, which brings me to the final part of this post.
I have been thinking about this blog, even if I haven't been updating. The point of Leg Plus Frame has always been to document the Taylor Spatial Frame experience in as full a way as I possibly can, but not necessarily the recovery. Until I change my mind, the final entry will be coming on May 9th, 2013. I think I'll spin off a sister blog to track what I do post-high school and post-frame, but we'll see.
Until May 9th, I'm fairly well aware that this has been a neglected blog. I have entries planned and, let's be honest, my academic demands are not as demanding as they could be. I should have the time to fill out the holes in the story and in my depiction of this experience between now and then. Expect an entry or so a day. Most will cover experiences I've already underwent, though there will be some brand-new stories, primarily revolving around track and the ultimate removal of the device/buddy/frame.
But for the here and now, I'm almost there. I wish I could try to express just how freeing that feels, even if my leg is still skewered and every piece of woodwork in the house is still under threat of being framed (framed, v., being forced to enter a nasty collision with a leg-attached hunk of metal).
For any readers currently boasting a frame with no scheduled end in sight, all I can say is: keep up hope. The end exists. Even knowledge of the end brings tremendous relief.
On December 26, I entered into a sort of living arrangement with my Taylor Spatial Frame, more commonly referred to as my buddy. I knew there was about an eleven degree correction to make to my leg, that the frame would get the job done in a couple weeks, that it would be a part of my life—and my leg—for another several months.
Some things are transitory.
In less than a month now, I will be permanently parting from the frame. Just like I was warned going into this whole process that the placing of the frame wouldn't be pretty and there would be pain, I've been warned by Dr. Sundberg that this will hurt a bit and that I will be wearing a knee immobilizer for a couple weeks. You see, the pins are coated in chemicals which promote bone growth, which is apparently the source of my future discomfort. And once the pins are removed I will be able to show of x-rays of my tibia with holes drilled through it.
I can't wait.
Am I nervous? Yes, I am. Every time I have surgery I tend to get a bit concerned. Along with a strong whiff of airplane gasoline, that's one of the side-effects of anesthesia. I also don't like the sound of not being comfortable. But the freedom…
For the past months, I have been limited to a ridiculous extent. No running. Be careful on stairs. Don't slip. Make sure to scrub the pin sites in the shower. Sleeping positions are dictated by the mood of the buddy. I've bumped against furniture, walls, door frames, people. The back of my calf has not felt the grass or even the mattress of my bed in months.
My most recent appointment with Dr. Sundberg was on April 8, just more than a week ago. He took another x-ray, looked at it, told me there were still a few weeks to go. He pointed out specific spots where he needed to see some more bone filling in before taking the device off. He still asked me when I wanted the frame removed.
I replied, April 26. In the time leading up to that appointment, my patience had worn beyond thin and I no longer cared about if the frame was taken off in the middle of the school day or not. As soon as possible was fine by me.
He informed me that April 26 might be a tad early. Two weeks from the appointment simply was not enough time for the bone to make the final bit of progress.
My next reply was May 3.
As of now, I'm scheduled to go in for x-rays on April 29 to ensure that the May 3 operating room date will hold. My fingers are rather tightly crossed that it will. Then the frame will be off my leg and onto its future life, in which it will be reused, I believe in Ecuador. I will say, I'm glad that somebody other than myself is getting use out of the device. As infuriating as it is, I have no doubts that this experience will transform my life for the better.
But, for now, I have a couple weeks of waiting to go, which brings me to the final part of this post.
I have been thinking about this blog, even if I haven't been updating. The point of Leg Plus Frame has always been to document the Taylor Spatial Frame experience in as full a way as I possibly can, but not necessarily the recovery. Until I change my mind, the final entry will be coming on May 9th, 2013. I think I'll spin off a sister blog to track what I do post-high school and post-frame, but we'll see.
Until May 9th, I'm fairly well aware that this has been a neglected blog. I have entries planned and, let's be honest, my academic demands are not as demanding as they could be. I should have the time to fill out the holes in the story and in my depiction of this experience between now and then. Expect an entry or so a day. Most will cover experiences I've already underwent, though there will be some brand-new stories, primarily revolving around track and the ultimate removal of the device/buddy/frame.
But for the here and now, I'm almost there. I wish I could try to express just how freeing that feels, even if my leg is still skewered and every piece of woodwork in the house is still under threat of being framed (framed, v., being forced to enter a nasty collision with a leg-attached hunk of metal).
For any readers currently boasting a frame with no scheduled end in sight, all I can say is: keep up hope. The end exists. Even knowledge of the end brings tremendous relief.
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