I’ve written enough about about my journey on the infection route that I’ve been on since January. I’ve been sick six of the seven months since my ATR surgery.
I’m at a loss for words.
This is my PICC line, my lifeline to health for 8 weeks — all 45 centimeters of it — that began in my inner arm and ended near my heart. It needed a strong artery to withstand the drugs, otherwise, I would have had to have a catheter change at least every other day. 
My wound — it’s not pretty, but it gets me there. I wonder when the discoloration will fade back to my normal skin tone.
My kind doctor reminds me that it has endured a major surgical trauma — twice.
Every day, my ankle reminds me that it is alive. The prickly pins and needles at bedtime signal strength and healing. 
I could just jump for joy — on the inside for now, anyway!
10 Days Post Op: Achilles Debridement
After my surgical debridement, I was told to return for a follow-up visit after 10 to 14 days. We’ve been experiencing some very warm and humid weather lately along with voggy conditions and no tradewinds. It rained quite a bit on our side of the island it took three days for our laundry to dry in the shade. (We are still awaiting a part for our dryer repair order.) If it hadn’t been for the discovery of free internet radio at Pandora, it would have been more miserable.
The 10th day and the first appointment slot at 8:30 a.m. at my ortho’s office could not come any sooner and I spent many claustrophobic nights in my cast counting down the days that the cast was to be removed.
I was so hopeful of this morning’s visit that I snuck the left side of my footwear in my bag, just in case I would be walking out of Dr. W’s office, crutches in hand, walking full weight bearing, on two shoes, or, rather, flip flops.
I imagined opening the door to his waiting room with the sound of heavenly angels and bright light as the other patients clasped their hands to their chests, waiting for their time with the miracle worker.
Not to be.
But still good . . . the nurse unwrapped my ace bandages and cut the cotton dressings between the plaster strips on my cast. She cautioned me not to move my ankle because it was now unprotected. What she didn’t know was that I was already walking on the cast for most of yesterday since I was getting very, very rebellious of using the crutches.
The doc comes in and begins snipping off at least 5 of the 15 stitches on my wound. He replaces them with steri-strips and puts on the purple scab medicine — just like he did 5 months ago with my first ATR surgery. He says I was allergic to the inner stitches used on my tendon and the last lesion that was forming away from the incision line was evidence of it.
I asked if he was able to take all the bad stitches out. He said yes. (Okay, doc, I’ll call you on this if you didn’t!)
I am worried that he will put me in another cast because the nurse is prepping the water bucket used for soaking the plaster strips. I am ready to go into my anti-cast negotiation mode of bargaining, promising my firstborn, bribing, or crying — anything NOT to be put into a cast again. With a sweep of his hand, he halts what the nurse is doing and says to me,
“I won’t put you into cast — you’ll just have to be careful — don’t fall into any holes or do any marathons,” as the sound of angel choirs sing again.
“Thank you, thank you,” I rejoice and I am sent home with my excuse slip to return to work on Friday and a signed application for the renewal of my disabled parking placard for the next four months, ending in October. (Does he really expect me to be recovered by then?!)
I still have to use my crutches outside the house and I see him again next week to get more stitches out. I can’t wait.
Notes to Self: On Taking a Bath
- Never, ever prematurely throw cast wrappings away thinking that you’re over them. You had to buy three cast cover packages because you thought you would not use them ever again. Cost $30.00.
- Train hubby to leave the shower ready for you. Tell him it’s difficult to unstack the chairs while standing one-footed on a slippery bath floor, and speaking of shower chairs, be glad you got a real one and not used a flimsy plastic lawn chair. Think safety.
- Likewise with the shower head at the lowest position.
- Keep the soap stocked and fresh towels out so that you don’t have to yell for them.
- Double-wrapping your PICC line and your casted foot takes longer than the shower itself. Make it count. Exfoliate. Wash your hair often. Veg with the water off. Pretend that this is a spa experience.
- Face the back of the shower stall so that the water streams on you and not on your cast or arm.
- Keep wrapped foot on smaller stool so that water won’t flow into it.
- Get everything ready beforehand so that you don’t have to suffer the indignity of streaking across the room in your birthday suit with nothing on but a cast and crutches.
- If too lazy to wrap, stick broken ankle and arm outside of curtains and shower one-handed, very quickly.
- Don’t forget to air out your plastic covers. You now have use of that multi-clothespin ring you got as a white elephant gift.
- Nudge the cat off the bath rug with your crutch instead of tiptoeing around him.