38 days later.

As I sit down to write this, it's been 38 days since the accident that left me with two broken leg bones and massively altered the direction of my life.

In the past month or so, I should have been:

• Training for my second half-marathon, getting in excellent shape and loving being in my own body (probably)
• Delivering three programs for work, further proving to my boss that I'm not actually an incompetent lump of flesh but instead a valuable asset to the team (and also quite deserving of a raise tyvm)
• Celebrating five years of being with my husband by going out to the bar where we had our first date (and wearing the new dress I bought for the occasion...okay, for New Year's Eve but it arrived on January 3)

Instead, I have been:

• Lying on a yoga mat in my office, willing my crumbling flesh prison to move the way I want it to
• Logging just shy of 60 hours of working on my farm in Stardew Valley
• Spilling a glass of wine on a puzzle that my husband and I were so close to finishing, having to order another one and start from the beginning

It's been good days and bad days, depending on so many individual factors that I'm not sure what kind of day it's going to be until I've hauled myself out of bed and crutched into the kitchen for coffee. 

Did I get enough sleep? 

How badly does my leg hurt?

How badly does the rest of me hurt?

Is the sun out? 

Do I actually get to go outside and be in the sun? 

Is my husband home or is it just me and the gang at Brooklyn's 99th Precinct? 

Do we have snacks or have I eaten them all? 

How depressed am I on a scale of "Sure, ten hours straight of Top Chef reruns sounds like a great way to spend the day" to "I wonder if they could just put me in a coma for the next three months and I could just sleep through this nightmare"?

Generally speaking, this injury has given me the time to reconnect with some of my creative side, including crafting and barfing my feelings into this blog for y'all to read and then feel sorry for me. I try and remember that when I'm having a really bad day.

However, it is also making me realize how much I took life before the injury for granted. Just the ability to decide "I want to go to this place" and not have to consider, "Can we get there in the car? How many stairs will I need to navigate? Is it snowy or icy outside?" I get that this is my reality, and in that reality this is one of the worst things to ever happen to me and it is hell and I'm sometimes afraid I won't be able to walk normally ever again. But also, that there are people who live with disabilities, and this is their every day life. And even on my worst days, I know that to be the truth, and have an entire ocean of empathy for y'all. As the kids say, you are the real MVPs. 

So today has been a pretty good day, and next week I get to go back to the doctor and there is the possibility that I'll get put into a shorter cast where...wait for it...I'll be able to bend my knee again. Stay tuned!

The Green Bastard.

[Part Four.]

And so the morning passes on Ellison 6. Someone comes to bring me menus for the day, and I order breakfast, lunch, and dinner, while hoping I won't still be here come dinnertime. I talk to my mom on the phone, and text back and forth with my husband, my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law. I take Instagram photos of my splinted leg for sympathy. When breakfast arrives, I eat my yogurt and English muffin happily, and drink my coffee like it's the last cup on earth.

At some point in the early afternoon, a gentleman comes in with the gear for my cast. He introduces himself as Craig, and he the next in line to do terrible things to my leg, but he at least entertains me while he does so. As he attempts to hold my foot at a 90 degree angle and wrap it in fiberglass, he tells me about the time he went for a pedicure and it's one of the best things he ever did for himself. He also tells the story of when he was out with his two sons and someone referred to him as their grandfather, and they called him "grandpa" all day.

As Craig manipulates my mangled limb, he soothes me by saying that I'm very strong and most men would be screaming in pain at this point. I very much feel like screaming, but his comment makes me chuckle and distracts me, so I allow the gender essentialism. I also am almost certain that he's right.

It's over soon enough, and as he is leaving, Craig asks me what my favorite color is, and I tell him, green. He agrees.

"Take care now, Amy. You're the best," Craig gives me a fist bump on his way out.

"No, you are," I reply. I mean it. I've been tended to very well during my stay in the hospital thus far, but this is the first time I really feel cared for.

I now have this monstrosity in place of a leg:

After The Castening, the rest of the afternoon passes about as quickly as the last few hours of work before a vacation. I eat lunch. I watch YouTube videos on my phone. A physical therapist comes to teach me how to use crutches. She walks behind me as I hobble down the hallway, making sure my hospital gown doesn't fly open and treat the entire 6th floor to a full moon. I get to sit in a recliner. I go for another set of x-rays and realize I'm probably the only Ortho patient in the entire hospital who is under 65. I sit for a full 30 minutes in a hallway waiting for someone to take me back to my room and I have forgotten my phone, so instead I swap complaints with an elderly patient with a bad back.

Finally, finally, Colleen comes to my room and tells me that everything is looking good and that I'll be able to go home soon. It's maybe 3 PM at this point, and I anticipate leaving within the hour. To celebrate, I try and fail to take a nap. I'm woken up a couple times, once by another nurse I haven't seen yet who is just checking to see if I'm doing okay, and once by my buddy Craig, who is back with the green fiberglass wrap for my cast. He wraps me up and pounds it out again, and I dub my new leg accessory, "The Green Bastard (from Parts Unknown)":

Colleen comes in shortly after Craig leaves, with a folder containing my discharge paperwork. Then, as I'm waiting for someone to come with a wheelchair to bring me downstairs, I make the first attempt to struggle into my clothing. I drop my underwear on the floor and kind of stare at them for a minute, and Colleen leaves and returns, bringing me the gift of a grabbing hook thingy, which makes the Underpantsing go much more smoothly. Once clothed, I crash around the room trying to pack all of my things into the overnight bag I never really ended up needing. As I'm doing so, I notice that my husband has stuck a field guide of Massachusetts birds in my bag, presumably to cheer me up, which at the moment makes me sad because I just want to go home to him and I don't know why it's taking so long.

Maybe 20 minutes go by and I receive a phone call from my equally frustrated husband, saying that he has been waiting out front and the hospital concierge or whatever is telling him to leave. I suggest that maybe he loop around and come back, but I have no idea what the situation is, or when someone will be there to get me.

10 minutes, another phone call; he moved to another area within the drop-off and the concierge found him again and he needs to leave immediately. It's now 5 PM, two hours after I was told I can go home. Not meaning to, I snap into the phone, "I have no idea when they're coming to get me. I've been waiting for thirty minutes now. I have been sitting around and waiting basically this entire day."

Of course, at this exact moment, a young man walks in with my ride. He apologizes profusely, they are understaffed today, so then I start apologizing even more profusely, and I'm just about ready to jump out the window if it means I get to leave faster. We head towards the elevator, downstairs, then out into the drop-off area, where my very frazzled-looking husband is waiting behind the wheel of the car.

Immediately, the concierges pounce on me and at first I'm afraid they're going to lecture me, but now they're helping me out of the chair and loading me into the backseat of the car like boxes from IKEA, which is fair, as I pretty much feel like a disassembled POӒNG at this point. I apologize for being a crank monster, and we head home to Thai takeout and the beginning of this journey into the unknown...Parts Unknown.

Trying to sleep in a hospital.

[Part Three.]

I'm alone in the ER holding cell again. I have a very badly broken shin bone that is likely going to need to be reconstructed, and I briefly consider the advantages of having my entire skeleton removed and replaced with a metal one. I make a mental note to make a Wolverine joke when I'm reunited with my husband again, whenever that may be.

For now, I have no idea how long I'm going to be in this Orthopedic Surgery Queue. Or when I'm going to be "moved upstairs," which is how it is phrased by the nurses and doctors and honestly strikes me as a little ominous. "We're just waiting for a bed and then you'll be Moved Upstairs," where Upstairs is the next boss level in a video game, or some sort of torture chamber that is inexplicably located on an upper level. Maybe the murderers like the natural light?

I close my eyes, try and at least rest my brain for a few moments. Naturally, the moment I nod off, another attendant barges into the room to transport me to the Terrace Murder Room or whatever. I'm taken up to the 6th floor Orthopedics unit, and upon my arrival I'm greeted by maybe five people who are setting up the room. One of these people is to be my nurse, a small and extremely energetic Japanese woman named Junko.

Once I've been hoisted into bed, I'm left with Junko, who in addition to the Questions, has a whole medical history she needs to take. It's getting close to 3:00 in the morning, but Junko is being refreshingly transparent and tells me she is sorry to have to keep me awake for longer, as she is required to ask all of these questions once a patient first arrives to stay. She gives me a very stern talking-to when she sees the water bottle that has been brought up with my things, as I'm scheduled for surgery in the morning and should not have anything to eat or drink. I like her.

When my intake is complete, Junko sets me up with some basic toiletries, and, blessedly, a small paper cup of pain meds. She attaches a cuff to my good leg, which is to prevent blood clots, and I plan to remove it immediately once Junko leaves, because there is no way I'm going to sleep with that thing squeezing me every 30 seconds.

Once I'm alone, I try and relax. I'm an extremely light sleeper under normal circumstances, but right now I am utterly exhausted, physically and mentally. I remove the blood pressure cuff thing from my leg, and jam a pair of earplugs into my ears. But I'm so uncomfortable. In the ER, the Ortho folks put a massive and unwieldy splint on my broken leg, and it feels like it weighs a million pounds. I try and adjust the bad leg, moving it slightly against the pile of pillows elevating it. I adjust the bed, head and feet. Now my back hurts. I fuck with everything again, and at some point realize it's hopeless, and jam the call button for help.

When Junko returns, she seems to know what the problem is, as she has brought a vial of morphine, which she attaches to my IV feed. She stays a few moments to make sure I'm okay, and when she leaves, I am finally able to relax and nod into a light sleep.

Of course, what feels like maybe two minutes later, Junko is back, has flipped all of the lights on and is puttering around, getting ready to extract approximately seven pints of blood from my already damaged body. All I can think about is breakfast. I haven't eaten anything in maybe 15 hours. Junko asks if a doctor has been by yet, and when I reply in the negative, she assures me someone should be by soon to let me know about the surgery.

Junko drains all of my blood, then informs me they have a urine (read: pregnancy) test when I'm ready to pee. I tell her I'm good to go now, so she sets the bedpan underneath me and then leaves to go drop the vials off at the lab. When I'm finished, I sit there and wait. To amuse myself, I begin quietly singing "sitting in a bucket of pee" to the tune of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay," and chuckling, almost certainly sounding like an insane person. After a few moments, I realize I don't know when she is actually coming back, and that I need to do something about my situation. Slowly, carefully, I lift my bottom and begin inching the very full bedpan out from underneath me.

When Junko returns, she sees the bedpan lying next to me, and actually exclaims, "Wow! Good job!" Whether it's because I filled the bedpan, or managed to wrangle it out from under myself, I'm not sure, but I will take the praise where I can get it. She leaves again, I pull out a book and settle in to wait.

In maybe a half hour, a man who I assume is the doctor comes in with an entourage of med students. They pour in and form a semi-circle around my bed, and I brace myself for an update. The doctor looks at a clipboard, then proceeds to tell me in a British accent that the break is not in fact as bad as they had told me last night, and that surgery won't be necessary, but rather, I will be getting a cast on instead. He orders the troupe of students to prepare for a cast, and then he's gone, all within the span of maybe five minutes. I suppose at Oxford University of Medicine or whatever, they don't teach you about bedside manner, but honestly I'm thrilled that I'm not going to be cut open.

I am also now filled with a sense of creeping dread...don't casts have to stay on a long time? I don't have much time to dwell, though, because there has been a shift change, and my new nurse breezes in and begins the Taking of the Vitals. She is blonde and very Boston, and I think her name is Colleen? She asks if I've been given a breakfast menu yet, and I told her no, I only just learned that I'm not having surgery and therefore am allowed to eat. Colleen must hear the hunger in my voice, because she asks if I want some crackers and peanut butter to hold me over, and I do, I really, really do.

Never leave the house in something you would mind being cut off you.

[Part Two.]

I'm at the ER, and it's now about 8:30 PM. The EMT and the nurse at registration compare notes while my husband stands next to the gurney, gripping my hand and making soothing noises. I'm slightly dazed from the pain meds. The nurse turns to me and asks the Questions, along with some additional inquiries.

"Do you smoke?" (no, somehow I have never been a smoker)

"Do you drink every day?" (of course not, I lie)

"Do you do any other drugs?" (nope, I lie again, because the one time I made the mistake of telling a doctor I smoked weed from time to time they did all these other bullshit drug screens on me like it was the 80s and people actually believed it was a gateway drug)

We are moved into the hallway to await a room. I text my boss and co-worker and let them know I will not be able to help with tomorrow's event because my leg is likely broken. I know they are screwed, and I'm maybe a little gleeful about it, which is fucked up, because my leg is likely broken.

After a short wait, I'm wheeled into a room and left there. For those of you lucky enough to never have been to the ER for any reason, those rooms are fucking bleak. Inconsistent lighting, a smattering of uncomfortable chairs, sharps containers on the walls, locked cabinets of medical supplies, and for the amount of time you spend waiting, an insulting lack of TV or magazines of any kind.

**Disclaimer: Despite the hospital smack-talk that follows this disclaimer, understand that I have nothing but utter reverence and complete respect for hospital employees. Y'all work so fucking hard and I am grateful for you. You are not responsible for the shortcomings of bureaucracy, so please make earmuffs (eyemuffs?) if you need to as you're reading because I'd rather break my other leg than disrespect your profession in any way.**

A nurse comes in to take my vitals. She is very sweet, and I cannot remember her name as soon as she tells it to me. I am asked if I'm in pain, which I feel like the answer to should probably be "duh", but instead I just nod gravely. The nurse leaves and comes back with a vial of something that is inserted into my IV. She tells me that the doctor will be in shortly. I know that in hospital talk, "shortly" translates to "between five and fifty-five minutes," and I am becoming more and more aware that I'm still in my gym clothes, still soaked in sweat that has now become very cold. I also haven't eaten dinner yet. It's close to 9:30 PM at this point.

Within the hour, a young woman comes into the room and asks me the Questions. She removes the splint from the fire department and is examining my lower leg, poking and prodding and asking if it hurts. It does. A man struts into the room, shakes my hand in a manner that I find distastefully enthusiastic considering my current situation and asks me the Questions again. I catch a glimpse of his badge and identify him as the attending physician, and he seems downright jolly as he quizzes the woman, who I assume is a student, on which area the X-rays should be taken. I'm told again that someone will arrive soon to take me for the X-rays. Husband puts on a podcast to help pass the time, while I play Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp on my phone and try very hard not to despair.

An attendant arrives soon to take me for the X-rays. He wheels me to somewhere else in the hospital, and then someone else wheels me into the imaging room. It is cold and dimly lit. The X-ray tech is nice enough, but he is about to do horrible things to me. In order to get a good image of the bone, my leg and foot need to be manipulated into the proper position. Manipulating my leg and foot is what causes both of those things to hurt very much. The tech is now trying to bend my foot toward me and I very nearly throw up in his kind face. He is instructing me to take deep breaths. Then he starts rotating my lower leg and I am again very close to passing out, involuntarily emitting these horrifying grunting noises in pain every time he touches me. When it's over, I practically cry with relief, and he gets me a blanket out of one of those warmer things, and I'm wheeled back to the ER.

We wait some more, during which time my mother calls me in a panic, because I'm a very considerate child and checked into the hospital on Facebook before calling either of my parents to tell them what happened. After I'm off the phone with my mom, another man and woman come in to the room, and I assume they are the Orthopedic folks. The new doctor asks the Questions as he takes a look at my leg, and suddenly notices the splint, which is still lying underneath my mangled leg.

"What is this?" he asks, barely concealing his disgust.

I take a close look at the splint for the first time and see that it is essentially a tri-folded piece of cardboard with discolored egg crate fabric glued inside it. I chuckle and say, "It's from the fire department."

The doctor picks it up, I swear, by his thumb and forefinger, saying "Well, let's get rid of this immediately."

He then proceeds to inform me that I do in fact have a bone fracture in the tibia (one of the long bones in the lower leg) and that they're going to have to do a CT scan in order to get a better look at the break and determine what the treatment will be.  I'm informed that there is actually a queue for Orthopedics procedures, full of other people who slipped on the ice tonight, and that it may be a longer wait. It's now nearly midnight.

There is now no way I'm going home tonight. I ask my husband to return home and pack a bag for me, and order a Lyft for him. It feels especially lonely once he's gone, and I attempt in vain to rest my eyes for just a moment until it's time for the CT scan. Then I realize that I really, really need to pee.

I page the nurse using the giant TV remote, and inform her that I gotta go. She leaves to get the necessaries, and when she returns with another nurse I realize that my condition is such that I require a team in order to take a tinkle. The two nurses consider me a moment, wonder aloud what's the best way to do the thing.

In the ambulance, I had a sock and an ankle compression sleeve cut off me. Currently, I'm also wearing a knee compression sleeve and my absolute favorite pair of running tights, which my husband calls the "Dippin' Dots pants." I tell them they might as well just cut the whole deal off.
It's going to be a while until I can work out again anyway.

The Pee Team sets the bedpan underneath me and draws the curtain so I can do the business. When I'm finished, I experience the very new sensation of sitting in a bowl of my own urine. Any dignity I may have retained up to this point is basically gone, and I resign myself to my fate.

The night continues. I get the CT scan. My husband returns to the ER just as the Orthopedic doctor does, who proceeds to and tell me that I have a spiral fracture of my tibia that goes down into the ankle joint, and I'm almost certainly going to need surgery, but it may not even happen until the weekend, because there are fourteen people ahead of me, also with broken appendages, who also need surgery. They are finding a room for me upstairs. It's 1:30 in the morning.

An accident.

[Part One.]

It's 6 PM on a Thursday in January. I'm still in the office, an extremely rare event. It had been a long day - I moved all of my stuff into a new office that I would be sharing with a member of my team, the reason for the move primarily being so my boss could come in every 5 minutes and annoy us both simultaneously (just a guess). Co-worker and I had also been working non-stop all day to prepare for an event that was kicking off the following Monday, and I'm now both mentally and physically exhausted. I'm sitting in my chair, feet up on my desk, waiting for my phone to charge and plowing a Clif bar into my hungry mouth.

Should I go to the gym? I think. I'm so tired. I just wanna go home and sit.

You're training for a half-marathon, some other brain cells pipe up. You need to be running like, every day, dummy. Go.

But like...I can go tomorrow after we do the event set up, I try to convince myself.

...

Okay, yeah. You're right. That's not fucking happening. FINE. Let's get this over with. 

I get to the gym, I hop on the treadmill, I flip the tv to Jersey Shore (I like to hatewatch while I work out), and I pound out a slow but satisfying 2.5 miles.

Back in the locker room, I hop on the scale, just for shits and gigs, and realize, I've lost seven pounds since the beginning of the month. Between not drinking (sup Drynuary) and forcing myself to exercise almost every day...it was paying off. And I was feeling good in my own skin for the first time in a while.

As I'm packing up to go, I check the transit app on my phone and realize I have just enough time to catch the bus that drops me off basically at the end of my street. So I don't change into my "outside clothes," but rather throw my jacket on over my running gear and head out.

The ground had gotten icy as fuck over the course of the early evening. The way I walk to the bus is primarily back roads, and although I'm taking it slow, there are a few almost comic moments where I lose my footing but manage to stay upright. I catch the bus more or less right on time, and take a moment to feel smug.

As I'm sitting on the bus, I wonder briefly whether or not I should at least change into my boots, but then get distracted by something extremely brilliant and witty someone's written on the internet.

Once off the bus, it's a short walk from the bus stop to my apartment. I'm doing fine, taking cautious steps. Once I reach the end of my street, there's an area where the sidewalk has been extremely icy pretty much since November. After almost slipping, again, I think, I really do not want to fall on this ice. I'm going to walk in the middle of the street where it's less icy.

I step off the curb.

Immediately, I slip.

As my left foot slides out from under me, I hear a loud CRUNCH as my leg twists, and I plummet to the ground, landing on my butt. The pain in my lower leg is instant, and blinding. I know something is very, very wrong and I begin to scream.

I must have yelled very loudly because all of a sudden, a man and a woman are hovering over me, looking very concerned. They're asking me questions and I can't think straight. I know I'm hurt pretty badly, and I definitely cannot move my left leg. I manage to convey two things, that I think I need an ambulance, and that I need to call my husband and let him know what happened.

The man dials 911 and the woman crouches by me as I dig my phone from my coat pocket and dial my spouse, who answers the phone sounding very amused, probably thinking that I locked myself out of the apartment. I stammer out the details of what happened, let him know that I am lying on the ground at the end of the street and he should probably get there soon.

A third person arrives to ask if he can do anything to help. Turns out he lives right across the street, and he quickly leaves and returns with a pillow and a large comforter. He lays the comforter over me as the other two people help me hoist myself up and put the pillow under my back. I am still very much in shock but manage to express my gratitude for these three strangers encircling me on this freezing cold evening while I lie on my back on the very ice that caused my fall.

A few minutes pass as the kind strangers are uncertain how to help me and I think I am making jokes at them because I am very stupid. My husband shows up and assists me in taking my messenger bag off, which is pinned underneath me. Suddenly, the fire department arrives, and two very kind firefighters are asking me questions.

Over the next 24 hours, I am going to be asked the following questions about 1,000 times each:

"What is your name?"

"What happened?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Do you have any pain anywhere else?"

"Do you have any head pain?"

"Can you feel this?" (pinching toes)

"Can you move your toes?" (I wiggle my digits immediately)

This time, the first time, the firefighter also asks, "Does this hurt?" and presses about 1/3 of the way up my shin. In response, I yowl in pain.

"We're going to have to straighten your leg out," the firefighter explains. "Can you sit up?"

I slowly begin raising my upper body, trying to support myself on my elbows. My jacket has stuck to the ice, and I can feel the fabric slowly giving way as I move more and more upright. It hurts to move, and I haven't even shifted my leg yet. I've started to cry.

The two firefighters then gently take my leg and lift it. Bolts of white-hot pain are shooting through my shin, my ankle. I'm sobbing and wailing the entire time, as they start to place the leg in a splint they brought along with them. I've never felt this much pain in my entire life. My vision starts to darken and I pray I'm not going to pass out, and suddenly, it's over.

Meanwhile, an ambulance has showed up, pulled up right next to me (going the wrong way up my street and also blocking egress. Ambulances are badass). The firefighter is exchanging notes with one of the EMTs, who then asks me the Questions. The EMT turns to her colleague and says "Tib/fib," and her colleague agrees. Then she turns to me and says "Time to get you into the ambulance."

The strangers have since left, and I'm pretty sure I thanked them for their kindness. I see my husband looking on with concern as the EMTs position me to get up on the gurney. I also notice some neighbors have left their houses and are standing on the sidewalk, staring. Thanks so much for your help, I think, annoyed. Then I'm being moved and forget about anything but the pain in my lower leg as they slowly lift me up onto the gurney, and we go bump-bump into the ambulance.

My husband is seated up front. They're taking me to Mass General. The first EMT is on my right, making notes. The second EMT, on my left, is blessedly going through cabinets to find me some pain meds. I'm told later by my husband that he could hear me yelping in pain for most of the ambulance ride. Finally, an IV of Dilaudid is administered, and the relief is almost instant. I watch out the back window through eyes blurred with tears as we race across the city to the hospital.