"Call! Don't Fall!"

I used to be really, really into television. I was one of those textbook warning label kids- if you turned it on, I just- got lost in it. For awhile it didn't really matter what it was. The t.v. turned on when I got home and turned off when I went to bed throughout a significant part of my elementary, middle, and high school years.
Yes, it ate my life- hours at a time devoured in a haze of different shows, reruns and food commercials- or, if you watched USA or Lifetime, just commercials for shows that would be on later. There were several shows that I had probably seen every single episode of- and not out of conscious planning, either. More from sheer volume of hours watched.
Eventually, life took turns that pulled me away from the ready availability of high quality cable packages, though, and while the internet did it's damnedest to fill the void, it never quite succeeded.

Don't get me wrong- I still enjoy my Netflix- there are always shows or movies which I could watch over and over and never get tired- they're my comfort on a bad day, old friends which never fail to distract me when I'm feeling down. There's nothing like Firefly playing in the background as I fiddle with commission or practice or just focus on expanding my inventory, and no one can snap me out of a low spoon craptastic feeling day where things are going wrong physically and mentally on multiple levels quite like Robin Williams, Russel Brand, Christopher Titus, Lewis Black, and Hal Sparks in their various stand up routines.
With the exception of a few, I'm a homebody about what I watch. I like what I like, and stick to it.

I find it curious- and inconvenient- that now that this stupid accident has occurred, I find myself with hours upon hours of nothing to do, full access to my Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon accounts- even a t.v. set up at the foot of the bed in my room- and no desire to watch anything, at all.

And when I say hours, folks, I mean HOURS of downtime. I've just transferred to rehab and my busy schedule today consisted of evaluation and a total of two hours of therapeutic activities. I seriously am up and about to pee more often than to do- anything else. They get us up here early, too, considering how little there is to do.

I was woken up around 7:30 with a woman persistently searching to mug me and take the red stuff I keep in my veins.
Getting situated in my walker, I was led on a supervised pilgrimage to the bathroom, hopping awkwardly in my stylish hospital gown, standard issue yellow grippy socks, and, of course, the staple of my ensemble- the giant bulky cast/post surgical dressing nightmare which encompasses the entirety of my right leg, from upper mid thigh to my foot.

For those of you who've never been to post-surgical rehab, I'm here to tell you, they treat you a lot like a newborn. I mean, it makes sense- after all, if you end up here, chances are great that you can't walk, don't know how to do anything in your new state (whatever that may be), and are generally helpless. You're also usually on a LOT of pain medication, so chances are great you're a bit off as far as common sense and decision making.
So, they never let you do anything alone. You are not allowed to stand up, walk, hobble, roll- anywhere by yourself. The first thing you see when you look on the giant progress white board across from your bed here is a red band sign with white letters; it reads "We care about your health and safety, CALL! DON'T FALL!"
Your bed has a weight alarm.
Your wheelchair has a weight alarm.
I'm pretty sure that if it were possible or would help them keep at least one person from doing something stupid with a walker, they'd have a weight alarm on them.

I realized how absolutely helpless the default setting was here when the nurse/staff member who was my welcome wagon assisted me into getting into the restroom- then realized that my newly operated on leg would be hanging with no support while I did my business, so he popped back in and placed my leg on an empty trashcan for my comfort without even looking at me or thinking twice about it, before closing the door and letting me know he was there when I was done and needed to get up.
Which took me an extra moment of mental adjustment because, frankly, I'd been peeing the whole time as he did that, and all of my blood had migrated to my face.

Or maybe I realized it when one of the morning nurses volunteered to cut my casserole for me...

But, I'm rambling.
On my first eventful day, I got up, proved I knew how to use a walker, proved I knew how to use a wheelchair, checked in with a doctor, was given medication, was fed three square meals (ish), and did about two hours of therapy- partially light exercise (lifting a very light weight over and over before literally batting a balloon back and forth for 3 minutes or so with another patient), and the other part trying to clean myself up without being able to shower and having a PT stand there awkwardly while I proved I could brush my teeth.
The rest of the time I was in my hospital bed.
With no way to play online games with my gamer people.
No books to read.
Noone to talk to (even if there were some people, the fact is I was in a royally bad mood- the special, rare kind you really need to keep to yourself unless you know your relationship can withstand anything).
And no desire, at all, to watch anything.
I'm going to have to find some way to fill this time- something I can do while on the totally completely necessary painkillers which are part of my routine. That (along with the whole hopping thing and lack of supplies) really limits my options...
No answers yet, but hopefully I'll think of something soon.

I'm really scratching my head on this one...

One Foot Wrong: The Pop That's Changing Everything.

I knew as soon as my foot hit the ground that something had gone wrong; I felt- in fact, I swear I even heard, a popping noise, felt something go bad around my right knee, before agony enveloped me and I fell to the ground, rotating so that knee wouldn't take the hit.

Outwardly, I screamed, lying there, grasping at my leg in the intense, gentle and cautious way you do when you know you've seriously messed yourself up, but are afraid that touching it will make it worse.
"That's not right," I remember exclaiming between the stream of profanity as my mind raced to process all the signals my body was sending me, the internal damage assessment. "That's wrong- that shouldn't be like that."

Facedown on the cool floor of the parking garage, I waited, trying to breathe, for the ambulance my friends called to come.

They checked my leg for telltale signs that usually show up in a break almost immediately- mainly, swelling and bruising- but neither were there. Still, when they moved my leg, I shouted out.
Even as I struggled with the pain, I scolded myself for the reaction- after all, all I'd done was stepped off a curb. My foot had landed normally, more or less- just the position of my knee was wonky (poor timing, bad judgement as far as the height of the curb); it had locked straight when it should have been bending. It was a move I'd made before and, while uncomfortable, had never resulted in damage. So, I figured, I couldn't have done anything too serious. Perhaps I tore something, perhaps I tweaked a nerve or- popped my knee partially out and back in wrong. I don't have a lot of knowledge as far as the anatomy of my limbs, but I was mad at myself because I kept thinking 'You couldn't have done anything that bad, and yet here you are, handling what seriously isn't even the worst pain you've experienced so poorly. You're being a wimp about this. Get a hold of yourself. Calm down.'

The paramedics gently and carefully loaded me into the ambulance and set off. Every time my leg jolted or moved, it continued to send signals- not just of pain, but of wrongness. Things weren't moving together as they should be. There was a sense that one part was moving out of sync with everything else. It was an extremely disconcerting feeling.

That was two days ago, and now I know that that feeling probably means that something is actually broken.
When I had stepped off that curb, the pop I felt/heard had been me fracturing the tibia of my right leg. Not a standard fracture, either. It's called a compression fracture, and it basically means that my bone broke- but also kind of crunched inwards on itself.

Because of the type of fracture, I'm going to need surgery. More specifically, I'm going to have at least 1 metal plate and a few screws put into my leg. It's possible that I will need a plate on either side. From what I understand, the surgeon won't know precisely until he opens me up.

So basically, I stepped off of a curb- that's literally all - and managed to break myself in such a way that I'll actually need reconstructive surgery that will add hardware to me which will be there for the rest of my life. I stepped off of a curb, and ensured that for the next six months, my life will stop.
I won't be able to have a job that requires any regular commitment.
I won't be able to even put weight on my leg for the first 3 weeks, at least.
It will be 6 months before I will be able to walk without a cane again.
I won't be able to have classes.
I can't finally learn to drive.
I can't go many places.
I won't be able to spend any real time without my leg elevated.

I'm trying really really hard to find a good outcome, but it's still early and all pretty overwhelming. But sitting here in my hospital bed in this sweltering room, I have little else to do but think...So this is probably far from the last post on this topic.

It's a big change; a huge change, a kick in the teeth when there's already so much to fight.

But I guess for now, I'll just have to see what happens next.
I have a feeling that my posts aren't going to be particularly well written over the next few weeks...So, sorry, reader, if you are out there, but as always, feel free to stay if you'd like.