On January 15, 2011, I was out celebrating a friend's birthday. I enjoyed some fizzy wine, did a shot with the crew, and danced dorkily. I left around midnight, picking my way through a foot of snow into a cab that took me home. Upon entrance to my apartment building, my boot skidded in a puddle of water and I rolled over on my ankle, landing in the melted snow tracked in by other residents. There was about two feet of unprotected tile before the mats were placed down, and that first step is the one that upended me and my next few months.
On the floor of the vestibule, I couldn't quite process what had just happened other than my gut knew to stay on the floor. When I lifted my leg, my foot dangled. So I put it back down. I sat there trying to breathe and figure out what to do and that's when the pain started to leak into my brain. I probably shouldn't have, but I unzipped my boot and took it off to see what was going on. My ankle had ballooned already and was hot to the touch. For some reason this was less scary than calling an ambulance, but I started to cry, realizing I was in shit either way.
The 9-11 operator was kind and patient with me as I tried to talk through my tears. Looking back, I'm pretty proud of the composure I hung onto, especially considering what was to come later. The EMTs arrived very quickly, two women and one very young male who was in training. They strapped my leg into a giant splint and cheerleaded me into pushing myself up to get on the stretcher. Being tied to a stretcher is pretty upsetting. I forgot how to breathe. They tucked ice packs around my ankle and spoke warmly to me on the way to the hospital. No sirens, lots of rumbling. They gave me oxygen but my eyes wouldn't dry. I was scared. This was the first time I'd ever been in an ambulance and only the third time I'd be going to emerg in my life. I did not yet know that the EMTs would be the nicest people I would meet on this journey.
At the hospital, the EMTs left me in the care of a nurse who asked me a ton of questions that I would soon learn to repeat every time I interacted with a new medical person. She scolded me for drinking (valid) and wearing inappropriate footwear (boots?) and suspiciously, judgmentally asked me why I was crying so much. Then another nurse came to cut my jeans off of me, which is one of the most traumatizing things I've experienced.
About an hour later, I was wheeled to get x-rays. The ideal positions for ankle x-rays were excruciating. I became nauseous and began shaking. I was piled with blankets but wouldn't stop shivering until I was home the next day. A doctor came next to tell me the x-rays showed both bones were broken. He explained that they were going to knock me out and set and cast the ankle. I was moved to another room in which there were 5 people who would be present for this process. It was not explained to me who they were. A woman who I assume was a nurse grumped about the last nurse not getting me into a gown. They let me undress myself thankfully but it probably took me 15 minutes. It is bizarre to lay naked while someone bags your possessions. I fully expected to never see them again. I wouldn't let them take my glasses out of my hand. Once appropriately unattired, they started an IV and I was out. When I woke up, there was my clunky cast, up to my knee. I was x-rayed again then they took me back to the main emergency room and finally allowed me painkillers.
The doctor came back to tell me my ankle was in the correct position to heal well, but he was recommending surgery to have reinforcements inserted to strengthen my ankle and prevent problems in the future. He was passing me off to the orthopedic surgeon. It was around 4 am at this point and I was expected to rest until the surgeon could see me. I did not rest; I cried, I wiped my eyes on the bedsheets. No one checked on me and I did not have a call button. The painkillers helped initially; however, I experienced extreme discomfort this entire time, never getting relief from the throbbing pain, just from the stabbing pain.
I waited until 7 am to call my mom, doing my best not to terrify her. She did way better with this than I gave her credit for. She was upset but kept reminding me that it was an accident, and it happens, and it could have been worse. Shortly after, the surgeon arrived to tell me about the procedure. I don't remember much of this. It's possible he explained the incisions and what would be put inside of me, but all of that came as a surprise to me later. Whatever his explanation was, I signed the paperwork. The next piece of news was that they were booked with more urgent surgery for the day so they were sending me home to be on call for an opening. They could call at any time, up until 8 pm. This meant I could not eat or drink until I had heard whether it was going to be a surgery day or not. Between 8 and midnight, I could eat and drink, then it would be back to fasting and waiting. The surgeon prescribed Tylenol 3 for me and said he would summon the physiotherapist for me.
Now that I was to be discharged, things moved quickly. I realized I hadn't thought to ask my mom to bring me pants, so off she went to fetch bottoms for me to wear home. The physiotherapist came with a shiny set of crutches for me. I could barely sit up, so I had no clue how I would manage to hoist myself around. She did not understand this and sighed at me, frustrated that crutches were going to be an effort for me. I started to notice the pain coming back in waves that debilitated me any time I moved. Somehow I got myself up onto my good foot, wedged the crutches under my arms, and learned the motions to start getting around. I moved about 6 feet across the floor and back, making the smallest gestures possible. I am uncoordinated on the best of days. My left leg stuck straight out below me, heavy and awkward as I tried to manoeuvre. I signed a bill for the crutches – they would not be covered.
I finally got to sit in a wheelchair and be taken out to the car. I cried some more at the seemingly insurmountable task of getting up from the chair and into the front seat. During the ride, I tried to lift my heel from the floor of the car so it wouldn't absorb every nudge and bump. I kept crying. At least I was going home. But I had to get to my apartment first. The curb: my biggest obstacle. Keep in mind the ground was covered in snow. I stood on my three legs in front of that curb, chin on my chest, absolutely defeated. I was scared to misjudge the height and knock myself off balance. I was scared to land my foot on the sidewalk unsteadily. I was scared my crutches would slip out from under me. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I was in an amount of pain I had never felt. I started sobbing, “I can't.” Get up the curb, get around on crutches, go through surgery, carry on. I just can't. My parents linked arms with me, reassured me that I wouldn't fall again, and we worked together to lift me that small distance up onto the sidewalk.
When I got into my apartment, I have never been so thankful to sit down. I parked myself on the couch and did not move until my prescription was brought to me and I could get enough relief to reposition myself into the closest thing to comfort and try to sleep.
I did not know what would come next. I couldn't picture how I was supposed to live on crutches. I dreaded being called in for surgery. I was unsure how to tell my supervisor that I wouldn't make it to work the next day. I had lots of tears left for all of the uncertainties.
My first of three casts.
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