A New Ankle

 

 

I had a shiny, brand-new ankle installed yesterday, so I thought I would tell you all about it.

Here’s the story.

About five years ago, at my annual physical with my local sawbones, I pointed out the swelling of my right ankle. He asked me to remove my left-hand shoe and sock. I thought he had possibly misunderstood about the right ankle until I realized he wanted to compare the two ankles side-by- side.

“Looks like arthritis,” he said. The truth of my dear old dad’s observation suddenly hit me. Dad said that the entire Eyetis family was no good, but Arthur was the worst of the bunch. He was correct. Now, fast forward fifty years for a 7:00 am appointment to replace my ankle at the Charlevoix Munson hospital.

I arrived early. I had faithfully followed their rule about consuming no food nor water since 12 PM the preceding night. I also was required to observe the hospital’s admonition of no booze for the preceding 24 hours, and I had a poor sleep during the night so you can imagine my mood when the cheery hospital receptionist enquired at precisely 7:00 AM, ‘And how are we doing this morning?”

I can’t remember my answer but apparently, I passed her test because she told me to have a seat and a nurse would accost me shortly (make that, assist me). She did. This nurse turned out to be a pleasant, matronly type who was full of information and had the patience to answer each of my questions, including the one about roofs in Charlevoix (more about this later). She led me to my room and indicated a chair for Marjorie while I was assigned to the bed. Next, she told me to take my clothes off. I thought it was a little soon since we had only just met. Her intent became clearer when she pointed at the hospital gown I was to wear. This hospital-supplied gown that was one of those guaranteed to fall open at the back upon my standing upright. Marjorie helped button up the back as best she could, given the absence of enough snaps to do a creditable job. To maintain some small measure of my quickly falling dignity, I slipped my pants back in place when the nurse said I could keep on my underwear and pants, at least temporarily.

 

The only unfortunate part of the encounter with the lady herein known as MY NURSE was when she repeated the list of questions that I had already answered at least twice on the phone as well as a few of the questions given by the receptionist 20 minutes earlier, including the one about which ankle needed repair. Then she gave me a pen and told me to write on my skin the word YES on the ankle to be replaced.

Several other nurses arrived over the next hour; each with some role to play in the process of my surgery and or recovery. MY NURSE stayed in the room and introduced each of the newcomers, seeming to watch over the tasks performed by these newbies.

Among the newcomers was the physical therapy nurse who talked about using the walker I was told to bring. She said I should show her how I could use the walker by traipsing around the room with my right foot held airborne as it would need to be positioned after my surgery. I did. After a moment or two she seemed satisfied with my performance and then she announced, “Lets see how you do in the bathroom. Is it time for you to urinate?” I must have said yes because she pushed open the bathroom door and stood aside as I entered. I didn’t know that both she and MY NURSE were going to crowd around me as I faced the toilet with the fall-away robe. Of course, I had to lift the robe to do my business, a business that was becoming nearly impossible since this was the first time in my life that I could recall having an audience to watch a strictly private matter.

I thought I had chosen an appropriate attire in selecting my gym pants with the large leg openings to accommodate a bandaged ankle. I was wrong. These pants had no fly, normally not a problem as I typically lowered the front part of the pants just enough to expose my nether regions to allow unobstructed urine flow. But I had never before had an audience. I did the only thing I could think of: I turned my back on the women, fiddled for a moment with my pants as I pretended to lower the front part, and then made a show and flushed the toilet, me assuming I could manage the not-going-to-the-toilet until after the surgery. I turned around with a smile, “I’m done,” I announced. It must have been convincing to the therapy nurse as she had no more demands of me.

The doctor arrived in my room sometime after the toilet fiasco and the departure of the therapy nurse. I didn’t know it was the doctor who was about to cut open my leg and foot. He had obviously just arrived as he was wearing dungarees and an outdoors jacket with nothing to suggest his doctoring business. I assumed he may have been a hospital maintenance man, coming into the room to check some of the gadgets that adorned the room’s walls. I finally realized he was THE MAN when he turned to me and asked “So which ankle are we doing today?” Upon my answer he quickly produced his own pen and bent to write something just above my YES on my ankle. Of course, it was illegible, but I felt relieved just the same.

After the doctor left to change into his scrubs and wash his hands, two more nurses arrived. MY NURSE introduced them and the older of the two told me they were to be my anesthetists. Two of them! One was the official anesthetist who directed the work of the other who proceeded to check the electrical terminals that my nurse had established for blood pressure, oxygen, etc.  The head anesthetist explained that she would give me separate doses of medicine for relaxation, and then numb my leg and ankle by a shot in the back of my leg as well as a general anesthesia injection. She explained the intent was not to render me unconscious but rather to begin the process for pain control both during and after surgery. She said that the amount of the anesthesia needed was her best guess since the effectiveness varied from patient to patient depending upon numerous factors. She said her intent was to provide pain relief for 24 hours. I appreciated her honesty even though it was a bit disconcerting to understand she had control of me for the next 24 hours via the correct assessment of the amount of medicine.

Then, an orderly came into the room and the group wheeled me into the surgery room where awaited my doctor; now adorned in a patterned blue set of surgical scrubs. No sooner had I arrived when the anesthetist team went into action, seeming to take turns in probing my body where they inserted their needles and administered their shots including one that required me to turn over for a shot in the back of my leg. As soon as I returned to lay on my back the medicine did its job and I went to sleep.

That’s it. I remember nothing about my surgery. I don’t know if I passed gas during the procedure where everyone in the room laughed or I just lay there like a lifeless body going through the automatic business of breathing, pumping blood and so forth. All I know is that I woke up in my room blissfully snoring away being attended by MY NURSE, My leg was different, now wrapped in giant bandage that extended from my knee to my toes that were barely visible. Somebody was an expert in bandaging while the patient was asleep, offering neither help nor resistance to the intricate job of disguising any mistakes made in lacerating my flesh, drilling holes in my bones, and putting everything back together after the surgeon had added titanium rods to my bones and inserted a new plastic gimmick to replace the outdated, worn-out ankle bone. Oh, he also told Marjorie that he stretched my foot ligament to fix my shrunken remnant that occurred from a five-year stint of insufficient activity in keeping my foot straight.

Their conversation occurred during my absence while someone, presumably a nurse, spent her time fashioning my bandage. Marjorie reported that the doctor said he was happy with the outcome of the surgery. He said everything worked to his satisfaction and that he expected I would be happy with the outcome as well. They seemed to have had a happy conversation that I missed. I am sure I would have been happy as well.

And now I am home, staring at football-sized bandage adorning my lower leg. The contraption is more than just a bandage. It is rather a combination leg-iron, boat anchor, and general inhibitor to the process of using a walker to remain upright while hopping on one leg and pushing a four-legged walker to move from place to place in our house. Despite this description of using the walker, it is not a fun tool. I am unable to manage any steps up or down a staircase, although I can manage to climb into and out of our smaller truck and I can negotiate the five small steps to our front door. I am scheduled for another doctor visit on October 25 when the current hard cast will be removed to be replaced by a walking boot.

Now, about the roofs in Charlevoix.

Charlevoix is a pleasant city adorning the west coast of Michigan. The hospital sits among a series of expensive, lake front homes on the shore of Lake Michigan. The town looks, and is prosperous. One of the distinguishing features of the town is the number of attractive ‘mushroom homes.’ These homes feature the use of thatched roofs made of water reed, a coarse weed with tubular stems that are water and temperature resistant when compressed into a thick roofing material. These roofs are highly praised in Europe, especially in Ireland where the weeds grow and where thatchers are skilled workmen who can fashion attractive and gently curving roofs in the shape of mushroom heads that adorn dormers or other roof features.

We drove around town before my surgery and found a number of beautiful homes with gently curving roofs. MY NURSE said her brother was a contractor with several clients who asked for thatched roofing for use on their Charlevoix homes.