This morning was my first appointment with the surgeon, post-hospital stay. I was there to have the splint, bandages, staples and stitches removed, get a couple of x-rays, and (I thought) get a cast on. So I went into the office and sat in a chair, and the nurse began to cut off all of the wrapping, etc. Not far into the procedure, my mouth got that familiar metallic taste and my ears began to ring.
"I'm going to pass out," I warned the nurse. Since that's what got me into this mess in the first place, she took me serious. By the time another nurse and the doctor were in the room to help me to the exam table so I could lay down, I was barely conscious.
I'm such a wuss.
The week before I broke my ankle, I watched Ken Burns' The Civil War series, streamed from Netflix. When I think of those young men, their bodies shattered on the battlefield by bullets and cannon balls and falls, without the aide of modern medicine, I have to stop and thank God that I didn't break this ankle 150 years ago. It was hard enough to go through it with all this wonderful care.
Now if only my energy level wasn't so low. Just writing this short blog post has sapped my strength. Whenever I try to write, I find myself drifting off to sleep within minutes. Very frustrating.
Oh, I do have some good news. The doctor chose not to put a cast on my leg. Instead, I'm in one of those boots. The ankle will remain non-weight bearing for at least another four weeks, but I feel less claustrophobic in the boot than a cast. Yea!