Perp and victim. Photo by Stingray.
I must put all speculation to rest. The gripping details of my ankle surgery are as follows.
They appear to be sushi and/or teeth, but the chunks from yesterday’s winsome post-op foto are actually fragments of various ankle bones. The fragments gradually chipped off over years and years of more or less annual sprainings. The tooth-shaped object in the foreground does resemble, in terms of shape and size, a feline fang. A few of the smaller chunks used to be a single super-chunk, but Dr. Ankle had to explode it to get it out. A shame. It had shown great promise, for a chunk.
The sartorial issues resulting from my temporary one-footedness are several. My 46-pound knee-high Velcro boot, for example, was black for the first eighteen minutes I wore it but is now and forevermore enmeshed in golden retriever fur. This unkempt crustypunk look blends, I guess, with a few of my 80′s hair band T-shirts, but I shudder to think what the Manolo would say. Other than ‘Ayyyyy,’ I mean.
You know what else, my crutches effect awkward armpit-bunching of whatever shirt I am wearing, a glamour-don’t that is exacerbated by my not having any boobs to keep the fabric where it oughta be.
You know what else, I am outfitted, at all times, in an anti-embolism stocking. On my good leg. An anti-embolism stocking is a repulsive thick white thigh-high made of the world’s most unforgivingly taut spandex. Its purpose, as far as I can tell, is to cut off completely the circulation in the designated extremity. I may not take it off (like that would even be possible without scissors or a phaser or something) lest I ‘throw a clot.’ I don’t know what ‘throw a clot’ is, and I don’t want to know.
The good news is, there’ll be physical therapy 3 times a week for about 86 years. I can’t wait! Because I have the most excellent physical therapist in Texas. Her name is Lori Schwanz, words I utter with awestruck reverence. She is an artist. Her work is superb. I know because I am an old customer of hers. In between my assorted cancer treatments and various surgeries, Lori Schwanz can be found tirelessly rehabbing a capsulitisized shoulder I messed up when throwing a baby one time about a year and a half ago. What happens is, Lori nearly gets the thing fixed—which miracle she performs by making me stretch giant rubber bands over and over—and then what do I do but go and get another boob chopped off or something, and then the shoulder re-freezes during my inactive convalescence, so we have to start over again. Thus I’m a fixture in her clinic, and I’ve seen a lot of leg injuries limp in and out of that joint. I confess that I always envied the gimps their more glamorous therapies. While I perpetually pull on the boring old giant rubber bands, the crutch’n'cast set get to balance on boards and pick up rocks with their toes and do a kind of high-steppin’ Rockettes routine with orange traffic cones. If that weren’t enough, afterward they get to lie around extravagantly in ice packs while little electrodes buzz juice through their wrecked limbs.
Man, if I don’t get to lie around extravagantly in an ice pack while getting electrocuted in physical therapy I’ll just die.
Meanwhile, perceptive Austinites can expect to observe me crashing around town on crutches for at least the next 2 months, with possible partial weight-/blame-bearing privileges commencing after four weeks. My crutches, actually, have a nice industrial look. Except for the logo decal. The decal says ‘Guardian Select’. To which I say, “my ass.” The only thing those crutches are guardianing is the looming contingency that I will soon go crashing down a flight of stairs, thus ensuring more work for my orthopedic surgeon. At least 78 times every day I teeter on those Guardian Selects with comical precariousness, most often when I am at the pinnacle of some precipice or other.
You know, before I became one-footed, I had no idea how much time I spend on precipices. 78% of my waking life, it turns out.