The Fractured Leg Saga Continues

I'm like a two year old who needs help using the toilet. I can't balance myself and manage to pull up or down my underwear or jean shorts to use the toilet. 

It's undignified. I'm humbled. I'm humiliated. 


None the less, it's been several days since my trip to the ER and the

pain in my fractured leg gets less and less as long as I keep movement to a minimum and keep it elevated. I'm taking ibuprofen for pain management, refusing to fill the narcotic pain medication prescription, including anti-nausea pills.  

The pain is manageable. I can do this. I can heal and be back to "normal" in no time. What's a little fracture? 

"Oh boy," the orthopedic surgeon says as soon as he glances at my x-rays on Tuesday, Sept. 2. The Labor Day holiday delayed my appointment. 

Surgery is required to fix my fractured tibia, but not my fractured fibula. 

Somehow, I muster the self-control not to burst into tears in front of the doctor. Surgery is one more layer of complication. 

I only half listen as the doctor explains that my tibia bone needs to be reset and held into place with a small metal plate and screws, requiring a small incision near my ankle and another 1/3 of the way up my calf muscle.

Another option is to make an incision at my knee and insert a metal rod along the length of my tibia. The doctor doesn't like this option because complications with my knee could arise later in life. 

The final option involved nails. In my bone. Holding it together. 

I'm thinking of my friend Amber who fell down the steps and fractured her leg in nine different places, effectively halting her entry into the Naval Academy. Now, I'm wondering how she endured. Can I be as strong as her?

The orthopedic surgeon explained that surgery needed to be done as soon as possible before the bone had more time to heal. His assistant scheduled it two days later at 3pm on Thursday, Sept. 4th. 

This is a fine mess I've gotten myself into. A fine mess, indeed.