...getting your freakin' leg whacked open from stem to stern. Here comes a full-on whine: DAMN, MY LEG HURTS!!!
better. At least yesterday I made it down to the doctor to get the 900
ton cast removed. Since I couldn't get my left leg into the car on the
driver's side around all the gas/brake/emergency brake pedals, J. had
to drive me. I took along my old friend, Das Boot (a Frankenstein-ish
orthopeadic boot, complete with numerous adjustment knobs, heavy duty
black velcro straps and steel reinforcements, it looks like something Q
would invent) that I had from the original broken ankle back in 2000.
Lucky I did, since they were nice enough to cut off the bulky cast and
replace it with the boot, but with a no-nonsense steely gaze and stern
instructions NOT to walk around without the boot, and then even only
when strictly neccessary.
No problem there. Especially since
walking feels like someone is cheerfully holding a red-hot poker against
my leg, it's automatically self-limiting. Since they had to make an
even bigger incision to remove the hardware than they do to place
it, the current incision is something on the order of 10 inches long.
J. inspected it last night and said, "Hey, now you've got another new
scar!" Whoopee. I told him I was going to come up with an interesting
story to go along with it, maybe involving a bar fight down at the docks
or the time that little voodoo doll came alive and chased me around the
house wielding a butcher knife. Hmmm....