Am in the homestretch for surgery next Friday. Saw the cardiologist ten days ago or so and he greenlighted (greenlit?) me which was important and the first wicket the orthopedist required. Before I spend time with my primary care physician, who deserves better but is stuck with me, I visited the orthopedic group yesterday.
It's a pretty new building and it's sprawling especially in comparison to the sort of rabbit warren their old office was when it was still in Norwich about a four minute walk (on really lousy knees) from my house. Now they're up in the Business Park which we used to call 'the Industrial Park' until we started counting all the apartment houses, condominiums, assisted living operations, baseball stadiums (stadia?), National Guard headquarters and realized we either needed to change the name or change the subject.
Sometimes different is better but not always the other way around. All ducks are birds but not all birds are ducks, though that's probably not true on Faux Gnus, but I digress. I'm having an ankle reconstruction from a fracture that never healed correctly back in May and the big concern today was my height to fit me with crutches. Such a hoot.
I have crutches, a cane (more than one actually), a walker (with both the tennis balls on the 'feet' and a horn-I had a sore thumb at the time so a bell was out of the question) as well as fourteen or so knee braces in various flavors and shapes. I have more of this synthetic and prosthetic stuff than most medical supply houses.
What I don't have is a lot of courage-or even a little bit. This is baby step surgery-and my brain knows that but again today as the doctor went through the drill, and we've rehearsed so there are no surprises, I started to go numb from the roots of my (rapidly disappearing) hair to the tips of my toes.
I had blood work and an EKG that had to be done at the hospital (where the surgery will take place but I'm not sure that's not more a matter of convenience than a requirement) and I could feel myself getting so tight I squeaked when I walked. The technician had to stick me twice because the needle didn't draw any blood the first time which tells me I am having the most fun with my clothes on I can have.
I always end up feeling about six sitting waiting for the hammer to fall, with lots of 'ma'am' and 'please,' and 'thank you.' All the way home I kept telling myself this is basically the same injury Curt Schilling had and that my surgery will cost the taxpayers of Rhode Island about 75 million dollars less. I think that's enough to get me a large coffee milk and maybe a private concert with John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. As long as I'm not expected to dance. Or tap my foot. Or stand....