And Beyond

A few years ago, the Linens ‘n Things chain store departed our frenetically busy mall area, leaving the residents of Clarksville bereft of a store specializing linens for the table, bedroom and bathroom, along with the host of other (overpriced)  items carried there, like pillows, kitchen gadgets and small appliances. The store was usually its busiest during the big sales, which were the only times the pricing made any sense. Now, if they had asked me, I would have recommended they skip the inflated daily prices and carry everything at levels closer to the sale prices. Maybe then the store might not have closed. But what do I know? I’m just an opinionated  consumer on a budget.

After a stretch of being limited to Target, two Kmarts and three WalMarts in search of household necessities like sheets and towels, there was news that Bed Bath & Beyond was coming to town. This seemed exciting – once again, there would be a store providing one-stop shopping for the stuff I actually sometimes need – like sheet sets and comforters, bath towels and shower curtains and the occasional mixing bowl or pizza wheel.

As a resident of a fully (over)furnished home who hates to shop, I don’t even know when the store actually opened, but I remember receiving a catalog in the fall of 2011 when I was spending my days on the couch, mending my leg that enjoyed a compound fracture of the tibia and fibula while playing roller derby. Perhaps ‘enjoyed’ is the wrong word. With the exception of the dreamy, floaty feeling from the lovely drugs I was given in the hospital, there was little that was enjoyable about it. Physical therapy began almost immediately, work followed rather quickly, and I never even had a chance to get bored. I juggled part-time work from my new home office (a.k.a the couch) beginning the third week after it happened. The pain medicine made me tired, and I spent most of my waking time balancing a laptop on my thighs and taking (sometimes long-winded) business calls on my cell phone, forcing me to increase the minutes in my calling plan to avoid the hefty 40-cent per minute overage penalty.

None of this matched my mental image of convalescence. Wasn’t I supposed to wearing a satin bed jacket, propped up by puffy pillows in a bed outfitted in linens that complemented my skin tones as I lingered over books and writing, with pauses to nap as sunlight streamed through my crystal clear, immaculate windows? What sort of injury earns that recuperation program? And where can I get some beautiful bed linens that will give me a rosy glow worthy of a magazine spread? Perhaps our new Bed Bath & Beyond?

The first week out of the hospital bore the closest resemblance to my Victorian convalescence fantasy – that’s when I was staying at the home of my derby wife / buddy / angel-in-waiting Devlin D Flesh, with my busted leg propped high on a stack of towels, alternating between the couch and her youngest son’s bedroom. Instead of a lovely and feminine satin robe, I was mostly outfitted in red capri yoga pants and a black hoodie borrowed from my hostess. She was great company and we watched recorded TV shows and chatted and ate lovely lunches. People visited bearing homemade brownies and she shuttled me to the doctor’s office and then one day it was time to go back to my own home. The doctor had told me I would know when the time was right, and sure enough, one day it was suddenly the day.

Back home, instead of lounging in bed reading, the days involved waking up and doing therapy exercises in bed, hobbling to the kitchen to feed Moose and myself, then hobbling to the couch to fire up the company laptop, clock in and start working. Miraculously, Moose’s temperament had tamed to match my own new, low-energy state and he spent a lot of time on the couch with me. After four hours of remote desktop labor, there was an hour to take care of important business (also known as “watch old episodes of Project Runway”), before hobbling to the door to let in the physical therapist and spend an hour on therapy. Then, suddenly, it was suppertime, followed quite closely by bedtime, which was now several hours earlier than the glorious and active pre-fracture days due to the sleep-inducing properties of the pain meds and energy drain of healing.

This was the rhythm of the days for the next month, punctuated by daily visits from bona fide, genuine angels disguised as Red River Sirens teammates, co-workers and friends who would take time from their own schedules to bring me lunches, dinner, and groceries,  handle chores I couldn’t physically deal with and visit. They were the bright spots in the dark stretch of being broken and working-from-home. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to work at the office, because leaving the house was cumbersome with a walker and the graduation to crutches was not much better. Moving around took ten times longer and required immense amounts of energy.

On the day the Bed, Bath & Beyond catalog landed, carried into the house by a helpful lunch visitor to spare me the fearful trip up the pitched driveway with a walker, I opened it with excitement, eager to see bed linens and bath towels. Since buying a queen size mattress, I have had only two sets of sheets, which means my options are an endless stretch of schlepping to the basement to launder sheets or sleeping in a grubby bed. More sheet sets in the rotation means the shiny promise of a week or two without washing and folding sheets. (This is also my theory on underpants – the more you own, the less frequently the laundry must be dealt with.)

In my excited journey through the Bed Bath & Beyond circular, it took 14 pages before the first (and only) image of a towel and another couple pages before I found the sole depiction of sheets. The 28-page circular was light on “bed” and “bath” and heavy on the “beyond,” with things like dinnerware, vacuum cleaners and a variety of urgently needed “As Seen On TV” products like the Genie Bra. The latest circular leads with an extensive array of patio furniture.

Consequently, seven months have elapsed since reviewing my first circular and I have still not visited Bed Bath & Beyond. Based on what lands in my mailbox, I’ll probably have better luck finding bedsheets at Tractor Supply Company, which, thanks to their recent frequent rotation of TV commercials, I now know is not actually a tractor showroom. To think I’ve been avoiding the place for years because I didn’t need a tractor, and it turns out I would have been mighty disappointed if I had gone there looking for one. Which is how I think I’ll feel going to Bed Bath & Beyond for sheets and towels and finding everything but.

Tick, Tick, Tick

The mild (read: nonexistent) winter of 2012 has resulted in warnings about a prolific season for insects and critters  from people who know about and monitor such things. It never got cold enough to kill off, well, anything. Heck, it was the first winter in quite possibly my entire life when I didn't even pull on a pair of gloves. The absence of a solid winter freeze meant a spring of wretched  allergies for everyone, and even though it's only April, the ticks and mosquitoes are already out in full force.  I've been sneezing, personally responsible for a spike in tissue sales, and scratching at bug bites like a monkey for what feels like forever but is probably closer to a month. Good times.

While generally annoyed by any biting creature that leaves behind an itchy reminder of its bloodsucking infiltration of my person, I've been thoroughly skeeved out about ticks since back in the last century. In the mid-1990s I met Meg just after she'd contracted Lyme Disease from a tick bite while gardening in her yard on Cape Cod. She was pregnant at the time and endured partial facial paralysis for several months from Bell's Palsy, which lasted until she delivered the baby. As a kid who never much cared for bugs, dirt or sweating, I reached adulthood backed by years of solid experience of summers invested in hiding indoors reading books to avoid insects and life in general. This methodology proved highly effective until the summer of 2008 when the stray cat I coaxed into my house and life converted my bug-free sanctuary into a flea-ridden hellhole. Daily routines expanded to include obsessive vacuuming coupled with frequent use of a lint roller and the wearing of Deep Woods insect repellant on the feet and ankles while indoors. Two failed home bug bombs led to the contracting of the services of a professional exterminator, a relationship that has endured for four years. During the period of flea infestation I became highly adept at sensing abnormalities (such as a lone flea) upon my flesh and could run the lint roller over all surfaces to collect fleas and their larvae with the speed of a Marvel Comics superhero.

Fortunately (and probably in large part due to my extensive avoidance techniques), I enjoyed minimal personal contact with ticks. There was the two-week archeological dig  at Land Between the Lakes back in October 2003 or so, when I sprayed liberally with Deep Woods eau de DEET, kept pant legs and shirt tucked in and still found a tick on my stomach one night after returning home. One tick over a two-week period spent daily in the woods felt like success. After performing at City of Clarksville's 2010 Riverfest along the Cumberland River, I felt an itch, and upon removing my belly dance costume, dealt with the glorious task of removing a tick that was busily burrowing into my bosom.  

The spring of 2012, however, is proving to be a record breaker.

In the space of one week in late April, I had already removed a tick from each dog, both of which seemed to be already expired and interpreted by me to mean the flea and tick solution is working. Then, sensing something unusual and tickly on my own skin, examined the situation and found a tiny, orangish dot with little crawly legs traversing the expanse of milky skin between my lady pillows. The next night, again sensing something amiss, I discovered a larger, darker reddish brown demon burrowing into my inner thigh, thus triggering a new, near-permanent state of high alert. I can now detect an eyelash or a dust mote on my skin the instant it lands, which, with my new hyper-acute sense of awareness carry the weight of a log or a boulder.

And that brings us to today, a day spent schlepping material possessions from the confines of the basement and inner sanctum of my home out to the front lawn -- and in the case of much of it, back from whence it came -- in the home retail ritual known as a Yard Sale. The rigors of dragging an ottoman, various chairs, boxes of  books, coffee mugs and other assorted housewares out to the front yard to be arranged on tables previously trotted up the driveway to the yard, and then unwinding the whole operation seven hours later, left me feeling thoroughly spent and in need of a lovely nap. It's cheaper and more convenient than going to a gym, but by the end of it, the leg that was broken six months ago was throbbing and aching (except for the parts that are still numb), and the leg that is doing the bulk of the work of transporting me around was even more fatigued than usual. My lower back hurt and my shoulders and neck were screaming with exertion and tension. The couch beckoned for a nap or to watch a movie (or a combination of the two).  We settled in -- Moose nestled into the pillows by my shoulder, and Winston down by my feet.

As I usually do when they are laying against me (or completely on me), I was petting my fur babies.  I felt a little bump on Moose's belly which turned out to be a tick. I disrupted our scene of domestic tranquility to fetch the now specially designated tick removing tweezers and pull the thing off. Like the one on him the other day, this one seemed less than alive.

Exhausted from moving heavy stuff in 80+ degree heat while now simultaneously harboring a refreshed state of tick high alert, I thought I felt something on my own stomach. Bingo! It was a tick, but unlike the one just removed from Moose, mine was still scuttling around and attempting to become one with my flesh. The tweezers came back out and so did the tick, which was entrapped on a piece of tape like his compatriot from Moose. By now, the idea of napping was nothing more than one of those flimsy morning dreams that evaporate with the bleat of the alarm clock. When the dogs rotated positions, it was Winston's turn for petting and tick inspection, which revealed one in the crease where his leg joins his body.  A banner day -- everybody gets a tick.

The calm of an evening featuring two hours of  Big Bang Theory episodes in syndication and a Lifetime network movie starring Lindsey Lohan, fueled by a supremely satisfying supper of double portobello veggie burgers with Provolone cheese and lettuce on an everything bagel accompanied by a Sam Adams Boston Lager, was interrupted by intrusive thoughts of ticks. The tranquility destroyers were two thoughts recurring to the point of obsession -- What will happen when I find a tick in a place I can't reach to remove it? And what if there is already a tick lodged in such a location and I just haven't found it yet? As I was shoving these ideas aside for the umpteenth time, I was snapped to attention by a poking feeling beyond my side and more around towards my back. The first assumption was the mandatory care tag in my new summer camisole, but contortions and yoga twists revealed it to be another freeking tick -- the second such discovery in an hour or two.

It's feeling out of control. Is it safe to use heavy duty repellant all over, every day like body lotion? Is there a body lotion with DEET that desn't smell like insect repellant and make my nose become stuffy? Does canine Frontline work on people? I sense a new research project in my immediate future, but it's probably just another tick. I'll tackle those new questions right after trying to memorize the symptoms of tick-borne illnesses like Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and Lyme disease. With four ticks removed from myself in one week's time, I am quickly losing faith in my odds. It's making my skin crawl.

Firsts and Such

The final Red River Sirens Roller Derby event for 2011 was a stunning personal finale.

Some people succumb to mid-life crisis by buying flashy sports cars and/or flashy jewelry. Some get divorces. Others take up overeating or drinking or religion. Some fight it with flat-out denial. Case in point -- I bought a pair of Reidells, learned to roller skate at age 49 and helped grow a roller derby team. I took the name 'shades deville' and focused on hydrating, stretching, endurance drills, technical skills, and attempting to cultivate and channel my aggression to help my team. After a year and a half of training and practicing, questioning myself, feeling like a misfit in a sport with a reputation for being dominated by misfits, and skating on the roster for a few bouts against other teams, things were finally beginning to gel for me. I was beginning to trust my skates more and second-guess myself less. I felt, for the first time, like maybe I could, with lots of focus and lots more practice, someday be good, and not just good 'for my age.'

About 45 minutes into the season-ending Zombies versus Commandos intra-league bout, I was propelled into a cannonball maneuver (I was the cannonball) at turn two that went not-quite-right, followed by a tangle or a Tango or something that resulted in me on the floor. I hit the floor a lot, and prided myself on getting up quickly, but this time was different. I felt my left lower leg snap, sort of like breaking a stick. This was not the usual spill, and my blood was spilling into a pool on the track.

Those few seconds resulted in a triumvirate of firsts in my personal and medical history. Spiral fractures of my tibia and fibula at the precocious age of 51-going-on-30 (or 12, depending upon whom is asked) marked my first documented broken bone(s). (The odd configuration of my 90-degree tailbone detected in January 2011 is still an unknown physical situation of unknown origin.) The multiple fractures required my first surgery (unless wisdom teeth removal counts, in which case my weekend of monumental firsts is minimized by approximately 33.3 percent). It was also my first overnight hospital stay (undisputed – and three nights!). The EMTs and hospital staff were incredulous that someone half a century old had not previously been broken and hospitalized, which had me feeling like some sort of freak. My camouflage patterned boys size 16 boxer briefs worn over fishnet tights and camo paint on my face only exacerbated the freak feeling. Out of context, commando derby attire is kind of, well, odd. I couldn't wait to wash the green and brown makeup off my face.

My first hospital food had me curious as to whether it would live up -- or down -- to the infamous reputation ascribed to it. It looked good on paper -- a visually appealing, professionally designed menu featuring breakfast, lunch, dinner, and "available all day" selections. At least twice (and possibly every time), the person on the other end of the food hotline asked, "Is that all?" after hearing my order for a scrambled egg and orange juice, or grilled cheese and tomato soup. Evidently, they are accustomed to feeding heartier appetites.

Even though it was delivered from a place called "Room Service," and arrived on a plate under a fancy lid on a tray carried by a person wearing a white shirt, black pants and black vest, (been there ... not a first) the trappings and presentation could not disguise the fact that the food was still mostly yucky. It turned out the flavor was directly improved, not by the tiny salt and pepper packets included with the napkin, but by activating the pain management button prior to, and while eating. It seems that Morphine makes food taste better. Each time my "Fresh Fruit Cup" contained cantaloupe, it required conscious and deliberate effort to block out the memories of the flood of news coverage of the recent spate of deaths from lysteria-tainted fruit. (Those were probably the times my blood pressure approached anything above super-low.) The veggie burger sounded promising but turned out to be an overcooked, sponge-like disc that was too spicy for even my spice loving palate -- another first. I choked down two bites before I gave up on it. The linguini with pesto, overcooked and mushy to the point of not requiring chewing, became another two-bite meal. The french toast was barely toasty and served with gross margarine spread. The scrambled eggs were actually edible. The clear winner of first prize in hospital Room Service roulette was the tomato soup and grilled cheese, but the overall winner for best meal during my stay was pizza from Michael's Pizza, prepared at a legitimate food supplier and delivered by a derby teammate. Perhaps Michael's could get a food concession at the Medical Center and perform a huge service to weak, hungry patients.

Gateway claims to practice Hourly Rounding, whereby nursing staff visit the patients every hour. They promote this in an informative brochure titled "Hourly Rounding and What it Means for You." There were clocks with movable hands opposite each bed in the luxury suite in which I was lodged (Room 4228). When the staff visits, explained in the brochure as hourly during the day and every two hours overnight, the clock hands are moved to the time of the most recent visit. Many of the visits included the recording of vital signs -- temperature, blood pressure and pulse. The staff almost always had to do my blood pressure twice -- the cuff on the portable equipment cart was too large and a reading couldn't be done successfully until they got "the small cuff." Eventually, someone left a small cuff attached to the rail of my bed so they could stop searching and commence with the reading and recording. Staff usually marveled at the low, low readings on my blood pressure. Perhaps the pool of blood left on the derby track had not been replenished yet, taking my usually low blood pressure to new lows.

Hourly rounding was great. It was predictable. As a 'guest,' I appreciated knowing when to expect the staff to show up to do vitals. It meant if I needed to use the bedside commode, I knew when someone would be around next, and might be able to avoid a call to the nurse station for help. On Sunday, Hourly Rounding worked like, well, clockwork. On Monday the system was just a fond memory and the place turned into a totally different hospital. It was anyone's guess when (or if) medical staff would be stopping by. Several times I had to buzz the nurse station because the IV machine to which I was attached was beeping frantically, which is rather unnerving and quite loud. When someone finally arrived, they'd casually comment, "Oh, that one is getting low," which probably would have been noticed with those regular, hourly visits.

When the same night nurse arrived Monday night that I had on Sunday, she asked how things were going. I said "Great," then asked if Hourly Rounds were just a weekend thing. When I pointed to my clock displaying "7" and said that was not from an hour ago, but from that morning -- 13 hours ago, she mentioned I was not the first patient to mention that in the hour since she'd arrived. Then she said she was going to speak with the supervisor, because the Hourly Rounding system was a quality mandate of the hospital, and supposed to be followed consistently.

On Tuesday I was discharged, which led to another day of surprises in the absence of information provided. I was told early in the day I would be discharged and that was the extent of the helpful nuggets of knowledge. Umm.... any idea what time this may be happening? Should I order another fabulous lunch from Room Service? I needed to arrange for a ride and a time frame would be helpful, unless that ambulance crew that delivered me on Saturday was planning to drop me off somewhere. I was handed two sheets of paper and two prescriptions, which required a line of questioning worthy of Judge Judy to learn that no, this hospital does not have a pharmacy on-site. (Maybe the tradeoff was between the lobby Starbucks or pharmacy?)

One sheet of paper was an official permission slip to leave. The other was a yellow carbon sheet bearing the previous day's date and a one sentence instruction to "Follow up with doctor on Wednesday, Oct 26." There were no written instructions about keeping my lower leg elevated for the next three days, as told during the surgeon's bedside visit. There was none of the timeline information I thought I remembered mentioned in my pre-surgery drugged state (when I was certain I felt the warmth of sunshine, beach breezes and sounds of the ocean) about stitch removal and putting weight on the affected limb. No info about keeping it dry. No doctor's name. No phone number to call to set up the aforementioned follow-up appointment. No helpful info whatsoever. This was becoming a mystery worthy of Nancy Drew. At least the Doctor's name was on the prescriptions. When we arrived at her house after a cross-town jaunt to the pharmacy, my gal pal Wendy conducted an Internet search to find the basic contact info required to call and schedule the follow-up, which, according to the office staff, was supposed to be Friday, not Wednesday. So the one concrete instruction I left with was not even correct. I had the feeling this was not a first-time occurrence for the establishment in which I was recently a guest.

Planned Parenthood

Some people have the luxury of planning when to expand their families -- waiting until the time feels "right," finances are in order, space is adequate or whatever physical or psychological obstacles once believed to exist are removed. There is excitement and anticipation imagining life with the new addition -- activities like family walks and cuddling on the couch. There might even be a practice run conducted first, spending time with a friends' family -- possibly a trial-by-fire opportunity to test one's patience and limits before launching headlong into the expansion program.

I recently underwent a process of considering whether my home and my life were capable of taking on responsibility for another. It's been an interesting learning process that showed me I have more patience and compassion than I used to (largely due to living with Moose for the past two years), and that maybe 'things' that could be destroyed by some knee-high creature running around aren't as important as relationships, and I like feeling needed (thanks again, Moose!).

In preparation for my growing family unit, I had several talks with Moose. This is not unusual, as I talk his cute triangular ears off regularly, but this time I was explaining to him that soon he wouldn't be the only one getting all my attention, but that doesn't mean I love him less.

There was a practice run when this cute little beagle-chihuaha mix named Winston came and stayed with us for a weekend. I had imagined a scene where Moose and Winston were frolicking and playing (which I saw Moose do at the shelter with this little dog Eddie I have wondered about ever since), but instead, they gave each other respectful space and/or climbed all over me while paying little heed to each other. They didn't seem to hate each other, and both were ecstatic when leashes and keys were picked up and it was clear we were going for a ride. Winston is lighter and leggier and can jump up onto my bed, while Moose hops alongside like a little circus performer, and Winston once looked down from the bed at Moose and growled, but I was optimistic we can move beyond this.

A few weeks later, Moose went off to a lovely pet resort in the Tennessee countryside while I went home to New England. He was surrounded by dogs of various breeds and sizes for twelve days and came home either tired or depressed, because for the first few days back he slept, rejected his food and seemed mopey. I took this as a positive sign that he would be agreeable to another dog being around all the time, but I have been known to be way off the mark on my assessments of a variety of relationship situations (especially when I'm involved) so who knows.

I reminded myself that I was ascribing human emotions to a dog, and maybe that was a little neurotic. But I do fear Moose is lonely -- the most playful I've ever seen him was that day two years ago at the shelter when he was so happy and playing with Eddie, and it's bothered me ever since that my little guy's happiest times may have been while on doggy death row. I even went back on Petfinder looking for Eddie shortly after getting Moose, but without luck.

At least it's finally being fixed. I am as ready as I'll ever be. Moose shall be a lonely only fur-baby no more. Winston, our test-drive houseguest, is coming to live with us. Last weekend, Moose and I went to PetSmart and got extra chew treats, toys and femur bones. Fancy Christmas collars were on clearance, so I bought two, imagining next year's Christmas portrait of my two little guys, maybe with Santa. Or maybe even forthis years now-too-late-for a Christmas / New Year's card -- maybe a new arrival announcement instead? I can probably get it out for Groundhog Day.  

Getting Physical

I like to study and analyze things I'm interested in. I love research. Sure, it can become obsessive, and friends may occasionally slip into a comatose state when I frequently slip into yet another recitation of the latest bits of knowledge upon which I have been bestowed during a late night spent with Google and YouTube learning about roller derby or wire wrapping or glass cutting or lead soldering or belly dance makeup. Sometimes EBay is the research vehicle of choice for weekends awash in viewings of vintage dresses or belly dance costumes. A Civil War project at work involved reading journals written by women in Clarksville from 1862-65 and narratives and interviews with freed slaves in the years following the war. It was heaven. Well, my version of it.

Years of ballet classes that began at age six, topped by years of a casual participation in yoga and four or five years of belly dance lessons have generated a reasonably high level of body consciousness and an interest in how muscles work and movement happens. It was interesting to me when my ballet teacher told us our balance on one leg would be better if we lifted through the torso and held our weight over the extended leg. Leg extension could be improved by focusing on pushing down in the hip, instead of raising the foot. In a recent belly dance workshop deeply rooted in yoga movement and anatomy, we learned to move the torso to the right by contracting the left oblique muscle, and executed chest lifts by contracting the muscles between the shoulder blades. Fascinating stuff. Well, to me.

Undergoing physical therapy has been an interesting learning adventure. Many of the movements and actions in my program are dance moves, or darned close to them. Except for the fact that I am there to rehabilitate an injury, it's kind of fun. That is, until the first therapy appointment of the new year that began with the first two days spent virtually immobilized with a wretched cold.

The third day of the new year was marked by my full-time return to work since what I now refer to as "the incident involving the leg" and the return to physical therapy after a trip home for Christmas that involved much overeating. Therapy opened with my attempting to ride a stationery bike and whining about my knee that keeps clicking like a party noisemaker, then attempting various ways to to actually feel some stretch in a flexible gastrocnemius muscle, and other assorted actions involving weights and towels and heel raises.

On the bike, we taped my knee with the three-inch surgery scar to stop the rubbing/clicking annoyance. Later, we discussed the big thick pad on my knee at the incision site that prevents my ability to kneel. I asked how long it would stay like that, thinking about yoga and the kneeling poses. Mr. Physical Therapist said "a year." He kids around sometimes, but this time he wasn't laughing or even smiling. In a standing exercise with weight shifts, I was supposed to raise the front of my foot. In spite of attempting this movement for many weeks, the stubborn left foot doesn't cooperate because the big toe doesn't flex no matter how hard I try. It's kind of a big deal, because it replaces smooth walking with a Frankensteinian walk that I despise at every step. My right foot rolls smoothly and silently while my left foot starts with the normal meeting of heel to ground, followed by a very ungraceful slap. No silent ninja action for me. Silent roll. SLAP! Roll. SLAP! Absolutely the worst sound I can imagine coming from my body. Worse than a loud, public fart. The big toe doesn't register feeling, so I don't walk around barefoot at home for fear of breaking my toe and not realizing it.

The physical therapist spent time addressing the issues of my colossally limp big toe and partially dysfunctional foot. In the midst of it, he said three words that sucked the air out of my otherwise good day. "Possible nerve damage." My bright mood dimmed. He had me close my eyes and he touched my shin, ankle, foot and toes, and I had to tell him when I could feel the touch. Half the time it seemed as though he had abanded me at the padded table upon which I sat and gone out for coffee. This seemed to confirm his suspicion, which he reiterated, only this time he left out the "possble" and just said "nerve damage." My mood became downright dark.

He explained to me about the nerve that runs down the shin (at the area of the fracture site noted by a lovely two-inch scar), through the ankle, over the top of my foot and to my toes. He said he'd call my surgeon. He assured me that nerves can regenerate, albeit at the rate of about a millimeter a month. Freeking great. Let's see, the length of the dead span of my ankle and foot plus a miniscule growth rate means that maybe by the time I'm 80 I'll be able to walk normally again and maybe even wear scuff slippers without constantly losing the left one in transit. Plenty of time to research ways to disguise a limp / Frankenstein walk. I already know of one -- deliberately hiding out at home. Much like the past two months.

Addiction Development

I can be impulsive. And forgetful. Maybe even a little obsessive. I might fall in like with a television series during the premier episode, then forget it ever existed before the next episode a week later. I can watch a day-long marathon of an entire season and not recognize the show's title if someone asked me about it the next day.

In my 'normal life' -- the one that I lived all the way up until October 22, 2011 when I sustained a compound fracture of the tibia and fibula in my left leg -- I rarely watched TV. I was on the go constantly, zipping between a full-time job, roller derby practice, derby marketing committee work that often consumed as many hours as a part-time job, taking care of Moose and sort of taking care of the house, and spastically bouncing between belly dance workshops, photography, writing, jewelry design and fabrication, occasional sewing of dance costumes, and far too many hours on the computer playing Scrabble and wasting time on facebook. It was a lot, but probably not as much as my friends with husbands and kids. The time I don't spend maintaining romantic and familial relationships is more self-absorbed time for me. It's a swell life. Really. At least that is what I keep telling myself.

After leg surgery at 1:00 am on October 23, I was checked in to a lovely hospital room. It had a pair of unmatched curtains that circled the bed for "privacy" and simultaneously blocked the view of the clock and the postage-stamp sized TV mounted on the wall. The TV was so small it was impossible to read the station ID, news crawls, sports scores or any other text that may be posted during a show. It was really fun when I was watching a show and the staff would draw my curtain to provide privacy for the person coming into or out of the room from the next bed and then neglect to re-open them, cutting me off from all stimulus and information in the room, and most importantly, the tiny TV.

The hospital drugs were great at blocking pain, and when combined with a steady stream of staff taking my blood pressure and temperature hourly, pretty much ensured I was wiped out and sleeping a lot. I couldn't hold my eyes open enough to read a book or magazine and could barely remain awake when visitors stopped in. The hospital time is mostly a fuzzy blur punctuated with panicked moments of losing my phone in the bedsheets that had been removed because my incision had drained through the dressings and all over the bed, and the heart-pounding moments of hobbling with the walker a full two feet to the bedside commode while being humbled by needing a nurse's assistance to pee.

After leaving the hospital, I was lodged at my friend Wendy's for a week, set up in her son's room and queen of the couch -- leg elevated on a pile of towels, watching regular TV and on-demand runs of entire seasons of shows. Wendy has great cable, with lots of movie channels and the ability to save shows and view on demand, sharply contrasting with my cheap one-step-above-basic package.

In four weeks convalescing at my own home, I have watched more TV than in the full four years leading up to now. We're talking marathons of Project Runway, Project Accessory, The Sopranos, America's Next Top Model and Millionaire Matchmaker, almost all of which made me cry at some point, due to feeling like a giant raw nerve. There were at least two solid weeks of daily doses of a different season of Project Runway (3:00) and On the Road with Austin and Santino (4:30). These are in addition to the movies. I decided to make a list of all the movies I watched during my home recovery incarceration that I could recall. The list currently stands at 21 movies, including 3 DVDs from my meager video holdings. At approximately two hours per movie, that is a few hours of staring at a box. The TV veiwing would begin daily within five minutes of clocking out of the company laptop remote desktop time clock. Weekends are free-for-all during my waking hours.

And since Thanksgiving night, my eyeballs have been exposed to something I have not only avoided watching for most of my adult life but actually ridiculed and mocked -- Christmas movies. Sappy, hopeful, tear-jerking, freeking Christmas movies where cranky, crotchedy, often childless working females (hmmm... sounds like me) always find true love on Christmas Eve and no later than Christmas Day. My previous aversion to the genre makes what has happened recently even more surprising. I have watched (i.e. cried through) at least eight Christmas-themed movies in five days. The only one that didn't pull a tear was Scrooged, probably because I was also reading email while that one was on.

This new affinity comes as a great shock to me. Since moving to Tennessee, where I have spent maybe three Christmases in my own home in ten years, I have not been much of a Christmas person. While I have an attic full of decorations, accumulated from decades of ceiling scraping trees in New England homes, I usually don't up put any decoratios any more. Really, why bother? My life is different, and I am usually elsewhere on Christmas, enjoying someone else's decorations and traditions. Decorating my house is just a bunch of work on my end that nobody else will see. And this year I can't actually get into the attic on my own. Asking for help is out of the question, as I am very particular about my decorations. I am afraid whoever might be helping would want to kill me.

When I realized I was trolling the channel guide consciously seeking Christmas movies and making mental notes about upcoming premier presentations on Hallmark and Lifetime, I panicked. It occurred to me that this thing is starting to feel like some sort of addiction. This may require an intervention. Or medication. Or my own Christmas miracle.

Handi-Capable

When it was time for my first follow-up appointment with the orthopedic surgeon, three days after being discharged from the hospital, my derby wife / nursemaid / angel / savior/ comedy team partner Wendy and I headed out. Our destination was the Gateway Medical Center complex comprised of the hospital and its cleverly named adjoining office building, “Medical Office Building 1.” Seriously. They even invested in metal letters on the facade to spell it out. It looks like they need a nice big donation from some local philanthropist so they can have a better name for that building. Anyone?  At least this time I was arriving at the center in a personal vehicle and not an ambulance.

Our hospital is an attractive structure. The first time I saw it at night, illuminated by the dramatic and expertly placed architectural lighting, it reminded me of the castle in the Emerald City of Oz or my first view of Foxwoods Casino rising up grand and beautiful in the middle of nothing, or in this case, a tobacco field. The building gives great face, its majestic facade attracting the eye of drivers on the nearby interstate. Strategically located between exits on I-24 which runs past it (so close you can almost touch it), you can't actually reach it directly from the interstate -- you need to know the magical labyrinth of side and back roads, and not become flustered by Dunlop Lane when it suddenly dead-ends at Ted Crozier Blvd, resulting in a panic-inducing moment for the uninitiated, as the hospital's address IS on Dunlop Lane, and when approaching fom the mall, drivers are suddenly faced with the orange and white striped road barrier signifying the road is no more, and beyond it, a farm field. It requires a right turn, then a left at the next light, and it's on the road again. Maybe it's part of a diabolical master plan to become a major player in the cardiac field -- boost the treatment numbers with all the extra walk-in traffic for cardiac events incurred while trying to visit a Gateway patient or a specialist in Medical Building One. Fortunately, we knew exactly where to go.

We had a plan. Wendy would drop me off at the building, park the car, then accompany me to the second floor suite housing my surgeon's office. Once I was settled, she would head out to an appointment of her own and return when she was done.

The first obstacle we encountered was the door, which is not the rare and exotic hands-free automatically opening door like those generally found at exclusive locations like Kroger, Walgreen's, WalMart or any number of other places accessed by intact and impaired people alike. These doors, set in an expansive wall of glass, require human intervention for activation, which is really a special touch when one is separated from life by say, a walker, or is juggling crutches. Don't be shy, just hippity-hop on up and give that big handle a yank. Beyond that door was a vestibule featuring a lovely weather matt not secured to the floor and perfect for tripping up those walker legs and that one good foot before reaching another glass wall with another door demanding a personal relationship for operation. We fought our way through the doors into the lobby where I hobbled to the first bench I saw, conveniently located immediately inside the second set of doors and parked myself and my high-speed, high-tech walker while Wendy went to park the car.

From my perch on a lovely upholstered bench, I surveyed the battlefield. The use of stone, glass and wood gave a wonderful textural feel to the large open area. Medical office doors dotted the walls around the lobby. A wide wooden staircase sat about three-fourths of the way into the lobby. There were framed color photos of beautiful nature scenes hung on the walls. Perhaps the most interesting detail was the placement of the elevators to the upper floors – unobtrusively tucked (in other words, practically hidden) neatly on the back wall at the furthest possible point from the entrance, a distance of approximately one mile according to my narcotic-medicated, walker-hobbling self. The distance from the bench to the elevators was downright frightening. For the past three days a round-trip trek of maybe 30 feet from the couch to the bathroom and back resulted in sufficient fatigue so as to require a nap. The estimate is probably way off, because I really have no sense of distance, but relatively speaking, I now needed to cross the equivalent of a continent the size of North America to advance to the next phase of this real-life game quest to reach Suite 210. Game on.

Upon reaching the second level of the building, we took a right out of the elevator and were faced with a corridor roughly the length of the Appalachian Trail, though absent the hills, wildlife and shrubbery. Wendy was ahead of me, scouting our magical destination, and I called out to her that I needed to rest. There were people behind me, who I motioned to go past me as I paused, forearms resting on the top bar of the walker, breathing heavily from all the one-legged hopping. Wendy called back over her shoulder, “Quit your bitching and keep moving,” which cracked me up and nearly caused bladder failure. When she picked me up from the hospital on Tuesday to transport me to her house, Wendy kidded that she was going to play Kathy Bates’ role in Misery, and occasionally we slipped into a little spiel. The comic relief provided when she discovered we were not alone in that hallway was enough to propel me down its never-ending expanse. Unfortunately, the reward at the end of the hallway was yet another forever-long hallway. Very video game-esque, these corridors.

After some 30 days of weary travel, we finally entered the waiting room of the Orthopedic and Spinal Surgery office. There were several people already there, at least half of them sporting the same trendy Bledsoe Boot that I was wearing, prompting chitchat about the latest fall footwear. Being my first office visit, there was at least a ream of paperwork to deal with, including checklists of symptoms, medical history, and the rules of the office appointments and payment expectations. The main directive I remembered receiving from the doctor at my discharge from the hospital was to keep my foot elevated. There was good reason to follow this order, as my foot throbbed and felt like it would explode any time it was not propped and elevated. I looked around the waiting room for a footstool, but there were none, nor were there any low tables. The chairs had wooden arms separating them, so it was not possible to just turn and hoist a leg on an adjoining chair, restaurant booth style. My leg was pounding in agony after the grueling journey from the car to the office and felt like it really would explode without immediate elevation. I asked the receptionist for a wastebasket, storage tub, or anything else that could be used to prop my leg. A stepstool with shiny white paint was produced. Except for the part where the boot kept slipping on the slick, painted surface, it was suitable. Could I really be the first compound fractured tibia-fibula patient in this practice who was trying to follow the doctor's directive? This building was attractic, but its loveliness carried a harsh penalty for the visitors.

Before she headed out for her own appointment, Wendy requested a wheelchair for our trip out of the office. I think she knew she'd have to carry me otherwise. And the surprising news from the Orthopedic and Spinal office staff -- they didn't have a wheelchair, and would have to go next door to the hospital to borrow one. Thankfully, they did, or our exit from the bulding could have been a catastrophe of epic proportions. Heck, after fighting with the weight of the seven-foot tall solid wood door to the restroom we both needed to use before leaving, we barely got out of the there intact. I'm not claiming to have the strength of Wonder Woman here, but seriously, I have no idea how the more frail, elderly patients even make it in or out of that office building. I said as much to the office nurses. I also pointed out to the doctor that the building was pretty, but the architect either seemed to have completely neglected to consider who would be using it, or had a very cruel sense of humor.

During my second visit there, while completing a patient satisfaction survey, I politely suggested in the "Additional Comments" section that they "move to a smaller office building with fewer obstacles, as weakened, hobbled patients are exhausted by the time they reached the second-floor suite. Or maybe it's just me." Just a thought.