HOBBLING ALONG

I’ve never received a more welcomed prescription than the one my orthopedic surgeon wrote for me earlier this week — one that assigns me to a Physical Therapist for 2 times a week for the next four weeks.  The wound has been looking its best in months, and I will not have to undergo another surgical procedure to clean it up.   I’ve been seeing my ortho every week since January and will visit again in four weeks.

Doubling the joy is that my Infection Specialist has taken me off the antibiotics, since my wounds are drying up, my kidneys are fine and my bacteria cultures are returning sterile, which all means I am now infection free.  I also managed to lose 10 pounds because of the water pills that control the swelling.  It may because of the flu that I had, but I’ll take any weight loss what ever way I can.  I’ve been seeing this doctor every week since the end of February, and my visits are now bi-weekly.

Thank God for good medical insurance.

I am happy because the event above should have come in January, as I am now four long months post ATR surgery and only now starting PT.  It was very discouraging to see my fellow recoverers sprint past me while I was sidelined, but I remain hopeful that I can join the race again.

Of course, I booked the first available PT appointment and met with my PT Assistant who among other things:

• measured my ankle movement every which way
• with my eyes closed, had my good foot mirror my injured foot’s movements to gauge my nerve perceptions
• tested my toe curling and foot pushing strengths
• tested my ability to do a calf raise, which I cannot do, mainly because of lack of confidence and fear — not even one!!
• assured me that my achilles has reattached.

My physical program for the next few days until my next session on Friday:

• Ankle ABCs twice a day
• Stretch Gastroc uni standing, 1 set of 2 30-second reps
• Calf Raises with the accommodation of  raising with both feet then lowering with left foot slowly, 1 set of 10 reps twice a day
• Stand on a pillow or mini-trampoline on my left leg and balance for 30 seconds at a time

My last news is that I’ve been given the clearance to reinstate my gym membership, though with the caveats of going easy on anything that would stress my ankle — no jumping, no pliometrics, no steps, etc., which is all good by me.  Of course, I zipped to the membership counter to redo my paperwork and bumped into a few gym classmates.

Given so much good news these past few days, I did what anyone on Spring Break does — to celebrate happily.  My choice today was to have a Chinese Food luncheon with my mother.

Wishing everyone well –

Booklady

Kailua, Hawaii

. . . as in Infectious Disease (I.D.) Specialist.

At first, Dr. Ortho was pleased.  The first hole in my incision line, who I’ll name Sister #1, the one that has plagued my life by:

1. not closing since November 2008,
2. forcing me on 3 rounds of 3 different antibiotics for the past 6 weeks,
3. holding up any introduction to any physical therapy since January, and
4. having me consider another surgery just to clean it up . . .

. . . has finally formed a nice scab!  Yay!

His examination, however, of Sister #2, who was just a little scab last week, will continue to plague my life even further.  She is:

1. now an opening the size of a thumbnail,
2. an angry red,
3. weepy,
4. another example of the stitch abscess and pseudomona that has formed on my incision line,
5. as painful as heck,
6. another confirmation that I may be reacting to my stitches, and
7. the reason to bring on Dr. PN, one of the best Infectious Disease (I.D.) Specialists in the state.

The clean-up surgical procedure entertained with Sister #1 is not an immediate option at this point, as Sister #2’s wound size cannot be stitched closed.  Foremost is to have this infection controlled, so sorry achilles, we can’t get to you just yet.

Dr. PN, a wise old-school sage with a pragmatic approach has me on:

• Amoxicillin to fight the bacterial strain I have,
• Furosimide water pills to reduce my swelling,
• Potassium Chloride to replenish my low potassium levels important for tissue recovery, but especially to offset the effects of the water pills, (ah, the world of drugs),
• a directive to keep my ankle elevated above my heart, even at work, and
• an appointment in 5 days to see if my body responds

According to Dr. Ortho, we’ll decide next Monday if I may still have to have the clean-up surgery and to be put on a Wound Vac.  It’s really a wonderful thing:

• It vacuum seals the wound and encourages tissue growth,
• It is administered in clinical settings to ensure sterility,
• It’s smaller than a cooler,
• I’m attached to this vacuum 24/7,
• I have to be hospitalized . . . for the full-blown surgery . . . AND . . . for the vacuum treatment . . . for two weeks . . . AND/SO
• It will give me more to blog about.

One more thing . . . I’ll introduce you to Sister #3 as she makes her grander entrance.  Sigh.

I’m never the textbook case,

Booklady

Between the Seventh and Eighth Mile on the Honolulu Marathon Route

Seven point two miles. That’s what the widget on my home page’s ATR Recovery as a New York Marathon said on March 1, 2009. It’s where I would be on a 26.2 mile marathon course.

I am a walker but because of my injury, I missed the December 2008 Honolulu Marathon that would have been my 5^th consecutive race.

How I missed eavesdropping on the side conversations between racers. How I missed acknowledging the overly enthusiastic shouts of the Japanese tourists’ “Ganbarree!!!!” (“go for iiiiit!!!”). How I missed partaking of childrens’ cereal offerings on the residential parts of the course. How I missed digging out the water cup pulp lodged in the grooves of my shoes. How I missed the silencing of conversation during the last five miles and the random musings that kept my pain at bay to carry me through the lonely stretches of highway.

I informally begin training for the marathon in February with an 8.15 mile family-friendly walk from the Aloha Tower to the Aloha Stadium on Oahu. I incorporate 3.5 mile walks several times during the week and do my practice racecourse walks around Labor Day. It’s not really training , but more of a life habit of walking and loving it.

Since the metaphoric 7^th mile of my ATR recovery was coming, I made it a point to make a pilgrimage this weekend to my most poignant part of the Honolulu Marathon course. It may not seem familiar, but it is, for this is at the bottom slope of Diamond Head, the iconic geographic symbol of Hawaii.

By this point on the course, the race began 7 miles ago in Downtown Honolulu with 5:30 a.m. fireworks and the boom of the starting cannon, much to the chagrin of the luxury oceanfront condo owners in their beds who wonder why they too must become part of this contest. The race has thus far taken me past Honolulu’s Chinatown, the business district and city municipal buildings with its lit-up holiday decor, the palace and statue of Historic Honolulu, a sleepy Waikiki Strip and the dawn’s light as it breaks off Waikiki Beach.

By this time I have secretly chosen the walkers with whom I have kept pace and started imaginary mini-races with these unknowing competitors and enter them into a personal race with me. The 70-year old Japanese tourist woman in front of me especially seems daunting. I realize that she may be actually 80 since Asians look younger than they are. In my mind, I lasso a rope around her waist and she pulls me along with her strides until I meet up with her. Winner! My next target this time is a silver-haired man in his purple-shirted Leukemia and Lymphoma Society shirt. I repeat my lasso trick. Winner . . . again!

There’s a reason why race statistics have age divisions, and I would share top rankings too — if I were in divisions 20 years more than my actual age. Perhaps I should choose targets who are closer in age to me. Drats, I cannot pass the sculpted lady in the Lululemon yoga pants. Let’s hope she goes for a bathroom break at the next station. I meet my fair match with a man in street shorts, faded t-shirt and woven lifeguard’s hat. They don’t call this marathon “the people’s race” for nothing.

The rush of the chocolate energy gel taken several hours ago is wearing out. I rue the decision to bring my iPod, my keys, extra band-aids, my Chapstick, a mushy banana, too much trail mix, another energy bar, one pack too many of a just-in-case gel, and a dollar bill and Tylenol, as if it mattered. If feel every ounce up the 100 feet above sea level ascent of Diamond Head. The morning sun looks like the gold of the afternoon, and the salted humidity of the ocean water from the cliffs below mixes with my sweaty glistening.

It is here that I seriously contemplate giving myself permission to end this race, for there is already the been-there-done-that of last year’s completion and next year’s contest to put on my to-do list. The physical discomforts of this race begin to make their presence known, and I know there will be more. I feel my bandaged toes through the dampness of my socks. I worry about blisters. There is a slight pain in my heel. I debate whether to take advantage of the next station.

At mile 7 I begin to feel the doubts of why I entered the race. I have been too selfish with my time? Am I doing this for the recognition? Have I trained enough? Do I have what it takes? Why put myself through this pain? Why do I have the audacity to think that I could even finish this?  What am I trying to prove?

Then something beautiful happens at mile 7.

The race masses’ Sisyphus-like trudge up Diamond Head is stirred by the din of motorcycles purring. Human voices awake and undulate louder as if a volume knob is turned. A huge wave comes, and it comes towards me. It breaks at my feet, and I see it is the lonely, singular intent of the first place runner. For one step, we face each other, and I see in his eyes the focus, determination, willingness and gratefulness for the act of running. His every tendon, sinew and labored breath has led to this pointed victory.

I am happy and I cry, for we are in the same race, this world class runner, and I –the morning walker — and every racer in between, whose reasons for entering this race are as varied as the ocean waves. For one moment there, we all share one thing – a personal victory gotten from the same race run together.  It is this picture, captured long before tomorrow’s morning paper, that lifts me to the final .2 mile finishing chute.

Today, my marathon is a different race, but yet it is similar. I too share in the race of the ATR runners who I am meeting along the way. I lasso myself to their experiences, pulling myself up with them, and allow myself to fall behind and to rest along the way as I journey the remaining 19 miles of my race.

I cry with them at every crutch slip-up and laugh with them on their adjustments to the unwieldiness of our casts and boots. I too share in the doubts, fears and frustrations of recoveries that do not follow the textbook sequences, and I too wish I were further along in the race. I happily revel in the victories of those approaching their normal gaits, and I realize that our race recoveries are as varied as the stars. Though we share this affliction called Achilles tendon rupture, we will be connected by our journeys as we approach our personal finish lines, one-by-one, step by step.

Aloha,

Booklady