Ankle Anniversary

Today is the 2nd year anniversary of when I broke my left ankle. On a sunny Saturday morning in March 2011, I was carrying some empty boxes from a nearby Starbucks for an upcoming move. I was too ambitious and stacked the boxes up too high to be able to see over them. And of course, as per typical Vancouver weather it had rained all night, so there was muddy grass on both sides of the sloped and curving path that I took. Needless to say, I tripped and fell. My legs crumpled beneath me and as I went down, the full weight of my ass landed right on top of my ankles and broke the left fibula (the thinner, outer bone in the leg).

 

Bruised and swollen

 

My ankle swelled to twice its normal size and hurt like a real mofo, but only for 15 minutes or so because by then the adrenaline kicks in and dulls the pain. I called my mom who called my brother and they both came to pick me up. It was a really awkward hippity-hoppity dance to the car using only my right leg (on a what I found out later was a sprained right ankle).

 

In the car, my mom wanted to take me to the hospital to which I scoffed and said, "It's okay, it doesn't really hurt that much. We'll just go see the family doctor on Monday."

 

I'm not kidding, it really didn't hurt if I don't move it or put any weight on it. Adrenaline is a very effective painkiller.

 

The stitches gets absorbed into my body. How cool is that?

 

My mother (God bless her) insisted that we go to the hospital and so off we went. Then at the hospital while I was getting x-rayed, the trainee technician clearly didn't know what the fuck he was doing and lost his hold on me. To prevent myself from face-planting onto the floor, I instinctively stood on both legs which meant, yes, I put weight on my broken left ankle. I'm pretty sure this is what put my already broken ankle slightly out of alignment and it required surgery.

The doctors did say something about torn ligaments and other things but still, that fucking technician ought to be fired and shot.

4 bolts and a plate

They put me on an IV drip and I stayed overnight. I wasn't allowed any food for 24 hours, nor water for 12 hours prior to the surgery and they wheeled me in for operation at 10pm on Sunday.

When I woke up, I registered that it was 12am on Monday and that I felt nauseous so I closed my eyes again. Then I proceeded to trip out for 30 minutes. They had me on some really good drugs.

An occupational therapist taught me how to go up and down the stairs using crutches and then I was discharged on Monday afternoon. I was out of commission for a total of 3 months: a strict no-weight bearing period of 6 weeks in a fibreglass cast, and then another 6 weeks spent re-learning how to walk in an air-walker boot. The strangest thing when I started walking again was that the inside of my ankle hurt more than the outside. (What the fuck? I don't know, don't look at me.)

It took a full year of physiotherapy before I felt ready to run again and two years later the area of incision is still discoloured and likely always will be.

I wish the story was more glamourous than what I've told (like breaking my ankle from executing a round-house kick on a couple of crooks), but there you go.

 

At least I get to keep the hardware. For life. (No, I don't beep at the airport. Thank God.)