Thirty six days ago, I wiped out going 2 miles per hour on an e-bike. In the bike lane, 2 blocks from the hotel where we were spending the 4th of July weekend, in Montreal. We’d been planning this getaway for months, and on the second day, I wound up in the ER – where the main language was French, I didn’t have health insurance that would cover me, and an 8-hour drive home on a holiday weekend when there was no way to see an orthopedic surgeon.
I was certain that the reason I couldn’t put weight on my leg was snapped tendons or ligaments, because my knee had been giving out periodically over the last decade, and more frequently in the last six months. In fact, the day before, I stepped wrong on some cobblestones and nearly went down.
The bike-lane slow-motion wipeout would have just been embarrassing; unfortunately, when I attempted to right the bike and stand up, I went down again. I am not ashamed to say that I screamed in agony. My stalwart companion inquired where the nearest hospital was from the passers-by; no one seemed to have a good answer. Did I mention it was Jazz Fest weekend? Another cyclist parked his bike and offered to stay with me until the car was fetched, pressing cold water bottles on the rapidly swelling knee. We were quite inconveniently situated on the sidewalk in front of a fast food joint, where a guy who looked like a crackhead emerged and then promptly attempted to steal the bicycle of the man who was holding cold water bottles on my knee and keeping me safe until my chauffer arrived to carry me away. “Stay here, I will be right back,” the man helping says. “I can’t actually move, so no chance of me running away,” was my smart-ass reply through tears and clenched teeth.
The crackhead, deprived of his prize, decided to wander over to where I was sitting, and began to ogle our e-bikes. “I can get you some ice,” he says to me, trying not to look like an opportunist. “Nice bikes,” he mumbled when we told him to leave. (Can you believe this guy? First, my helper’s bike, and then our bikes? I mean, seriously!)
Finally, the chariot arrives, the bikes are loaded, and I am somehow put into the front seat. The nearest hospital was literally 2 blocks away, and was a university hospital with a good reputation. Unfortunately, I am not Canadian nor can I actually speak French. The best I could do was tell people that I did not speak French, only English. Believe it or not, a translator for one of the nurses was required to explain things to me. (!!!)
After x-rays were taken, it was abundantly clear that I had badly fractured my tibial plateau. Any soft tissue damage (tendons, ligaments) were, according to the orthopedic surgeon on call, the least of my worries. By the time we were informed of what was actually wrong with me, we’d been in the ER for about six hours. They outfitted me with an immobilizer, recommended surgery within 48 – 72 hours, and when I could not raise a soul at my health insurance provider on a Sunday before a holiday weekend, I was sent back to the hotel. We spent the entire day in that ER, and it was clear that there would be no more summer fun for us.
The meticulously planned vacation to Switzerland and Germany was now for sure cancelled. Any hope that I would be walking within a few weeks, gone. We now had a full day of driving ahead us; the pharmacy was visited, the car re-packed and reconfigured so I could lay on the back seat with my leg out straight. I was given crutches, which I was less than confident with. (The first attempt had me falling and screaming in pain in the ER.)
Between the fall and the surgery (8 full days)
While my partner was out filling my pain medication prescription on Monday, while still in Montreal, I was able to make some calls. First to my insurance company, where I was told that surgery in Canada was most likely not covered, so I should call my doctor in NJ and schedule there. Then, to the orthopedist that I normally see for knee trouble – where I was informed that the soonest I could be seen was Thursday at 3:30 pm. Not satisfied, I called another group and was scheduled for Wednesday morning. Tuesday, July 4th, was pure agony. The morphine I was given in Montreal made be vomit all the way home, so I was taking Ibuprofen to dull the pain and reduce the swelling. Tuesday was the longest 24 hours of my life. Wednesday morning, I scooted through my house on my ass, down the front steps and limped to my friend’s car on my crutches – laid myself into the back seat – and off we went to the first ortho appointment.
That was an experience! In order to procure a wheelchair to bring me in, my friend had to hand over her driver’s license (what? people steal wheelchairs from orthopedist offices?). Once in the building, one of the other patients helped us navigate doors and the waiting room, because the staff wouldn’t. The surgeon we saw didn’t spend a whole lot of time with me, told me what I already knew, and scheduled me for surgery at a hospital in Pennsylvania that I’d not heard of on Monday morning. The reason for this location was that it was the only hospital that particular surgeon held credentials. I’m in pain and scared, so I don’t think much of it. I called my honey and told him the news. “Absolutely not,” was his immediate response. “That is the worst hospital in the region. Call the other group and get a second opinion, you are NOT having surgery there.”
Woo boy. I am laying in the backseat of my friend’s car, calling the other ortho office. “I was just seen by a different orthopedic surgeon who has scheduled me for surgery at this hospital in Pennsylvania. I am not comfortable with this, how quickly can I get in to see someone in your office?” I was scheduled for early the next day. By now, it is now 4 days since the injury, and time is of the essence. So the next day, we do the same thing. I scoot through the house on my ass, scoot down the front steps, and hobble to the car. We go to the doctor’s office, a mere 5 minutes from the house.
This place immediately helps my friend with a wheelchair, staff helps her get me into the waiting room and then into the exam room. I am in pain, still scared, and in walks a young, handsome doctor with a pained look on his face. He says to me, “I am so sorry to tell you this, but I cannot treat you. I am a tendon, muscle and ligament guy and don’t treat complex fractures like yours. I am so sorry I had you come out here this morning.” I am crushed and discouraged. “However,” he says, “one of my colleagues specializes in complex fractures like yours. I have reviewed your scans with him already and you’re scheduled to see him today at 1 pm in our other office. He has already begun looking for OR spots for you.” My original appointment was with this same doctor but 3 hours later, so I am now less discouraged. The doctor tells his staff to void the co-pay, and void the appointment as if it never happened.
At the afternoon appointment, we are met at the front desk and whisked into the exam room. The PA comes in with new ice packs and a hinged brace, takes my vitals and explains that the doctor is trying to find time in the OR for Monday. The doc comes in and explains that I not only have a chunk of bone that has separated from the tibia, but my entire tibial plateau is riddled with cracks. There is another break on the opposite side that has not separated and may require that he make a second incision on the other side of the knee to place a plate there. He hopes he doesn’t have to do that and he will attempt to fix it without making two incisions. He tells his staff to pull in whatever favors he is owed to get me into surgery on Monday. There is urgency now; it will have been 8 days since the injury by the time I am operated on. For the first time since that Sunday, I feel as though the tide has turned. I call my insurance company, tell them to ignore any requests for approvals from the prior ortho office, and give approval to this one. I call the other ortho office and tell them to cancel the surgery they scheduled and any other appointments that may be on the books. The following morning, I get a call from the hospital in Pennsylvania; they were never informed that the surgery was cancelled. That tracks.
I need help. Seriously.
In between the doctor’s visits, I am camped out in my eldest son’s room – he has a private bathroom that is accessible by crutches and won’t cause me to fall, as long as I am careful. This is not without drama, as he is annoyed that I can’t go up the narrow staircase to my bedroom and is really pissed off that a parade of my girlfriends are coming in and out to feed and bathe me. Did I mention that my house is not level anywhere except between his bedroom and his bathroom? We have a whole text argument about me inviting my boyfriend to come bring me dinner on Saturday night before my surgery because he doesn’t want this strange man in his room. I have violated his privacy. He involves his sister, who lives in Maryland and has no idea how bad my situation is. She suggests that we trade rooms – furniture, etc. – as if that can actually be done while I am in surgery (it cannot be done, period.) I am seriously annoyed with two thirds of my brood. Do they really think I want to be camping out in someone else’s space? Do they really think I would do it if I could actually climb stairs? How in the world do these people think I can go up stairs when I cannot put any weight at all on my left leg?
Incredulous, I call my best friend who is now living in Atlanta. Worried that I need more help than I will ever get from my children, she flies up to my house on Sunday. She immediately takes over, starts giving orders and cleaning up my house. Another friend has been coming every other evening to wash my hair and help me get a sponge bath (cannot shower in my house – all the bathrooms have clawfoot tubs – so no showering there!). The boys living in my house suddenly show some understanding of how serious my injury really is. The daughter won’t understand it for at least another week, when she sees me in person, but then reality sets in.
The morning of July 10, I go under the knife, have all manner of hardware placed in my knee and am pumped up with a bunch of painkillers that won’t make me puke. On July 11, I am sent home with a walker, more icepacks, and a prescription for pain medication to last me until my follow up appointment on the 20th. Both days, my two friends are there, keeping each other company as much as they are keeping me company.
My bestie stays until the Friday after surgery, leaving her compatriot with instructions to come to my house twice a day to ensure I eat lunch and dinner, and that I am made as comfortable as I can be. The next week is complete with grocery runs, mealtimes, physical therapy and visits from friends bringing me dinners that they have made (all delicious.) My follow up appointment is 10 days after surgery, and my physical therapist and I are working on traversing the house with my walker, with special emphasis on the front steps. The morning of my follow up, I have successfully gone up and down the steps without incident. I am confident that I will be walking in just a few weeks. I feel better every day. I can’t do a whole stairwell, but the 2 steps up onto my porch are do-able.
The follow up.
The morning of my first follow up appointment, I am feeling accomplished and relatively strong. I go to see my surgeon with high hopes. Will I be allowed to put weight on my leg? Will the next phase of recovery begin now? It has been ten days since the surgery, surely my body can recover enough to get on with life.
I go to the surgeon’s office, get x-rays taken. When he comes into the room to talk to me, he informs me that the secondary break on the plateau has not begun to adhere to the main tibia yet. I cannot risk putting weight on the leg now. He orders me to stay the current course for another month. I am crestfallen. Worse, when I tried to make an appointment for four weeks out, it became five weeks due to my surgeon’s availability. Five more weeks. Five more weeks of no weight bearing, no stair climbing, no driving, no range of motion or strength training. Five more weeks on my ass. I am deflated and now feeling very tired, I have to resort to my old method of getting up my porch steps – on my ass. It is less than gracious and certainly less than I was able to do just that morning. It is mid-July and any hope that I had to salvage any part of the summer has evaporated into thin air.
As if that was not enough deflating news, the physical therapist calls and informs me that no house calls can be made if I move to my boyfriend’s for the duration, as it is outside of their territory. Ugh.
The escape.
From the moment I became injured, it was clear that the recovery and rehabilitation would be lengthy. My boyfriend (such a strange term to be used when one is OPD), never deterred by challenges, decides to ready his home for me. I receive nearly daily updates on the “Sheila-izing” of his home. Furniture is rearranged or moved entirely from spaces to open up his first floor. Doors are taken from their hinges to allow for easy egress to the back patio. Hand rails and safety barricades are installed purely for my benefit.
Distressed by the near-constant complaints of privacy violation by my eldest, along with the understanding that my friends cannot care for me long-term, I decide to escape to my boyfriend’s home for as long as he can stand me. On July 22, I have my last in-home physical therapy session. The PT agrees that being in a flat living space with a walk-in shower is the right move until I allowed to progress to the next phase of rehabilitation. That afternoon, I leave my home and my sons, and off I go.
My current situation.
I’ve been here a full two weeks, with nearly three weeks left of this limbo until I learn my fate. Every morning, I am brought coffee and breakfast; provided with a perch where I can work and watch television, if I so choose. It is not unusual for me to fall asleep in the middle of the day when my brain has had enough. I faithfully do the exercises I was prescribed, and attempt to add a degree of motion to my knee. I am allowed up to 90 degrees, but I am nowhere near that yet. My tendons and ligaments are so tight it is hard to believe that I had thought them to be beyond elasticity. I still need to use my ass as my means of going up and down stairs so I can get outside and commune with people and nature. I’m using muscles I forgot I had as I crab walk my way to chairs I have to haul myself into.
It took two full weeks for my eldest to acknowledge that I wasn’t home. The younger of the two is learning how to survive on his own without me. I have entrusted him with the household upkeep, since he seems to be somewhat responsible, and does what I ask of him without pushback.
What I have learned.
This has been one of the most difficult experiences I have had (and I have had many.) I am a self-reliant and fiercely independent person. I am from the “it’s easier if I just do it myself” camp. Being unable to move, unable to walk, has left me completely reliant on other people. It is completely contrary to my nature. I have had to learn to ask, and accept, help in all forms, from all people.
I have learned that you can’t hold others to the same standards as you demand from yourself and you have to be gracious about it. I have learned that it really does take a village to get through distressing times in your life. I have learned that in order to move ahead, you have to let go.
I also learned that you cannot assume your kids will understand, much less be compassionate, about what you’re going through.
Most of all, I learned who comes through in the clutch, which makes me appreciate them all that much more.
