Splat! Part 2

The next morning I opened my eyes, hoping against hope that I’d be on the receiving end of a miracle. For example, perhaps I’d be lying in a comfy bed in some other part of the world, healthy and ready to climb some nearby mountain. (Dream big, right?) Unfortunately, I found myself sitting in the same chair in the same living room, with my left knee and right ankle fighting each other for my attention:

Left Knee: “I hurt way more than you do! He should pay more attention to me!”

Right Ankle: “Nuh-uh! I hurt way more than you!”

Left Knee: “Oh, yeah?! You’re stupid!”

Me: “Groan.”

Knowing I had to figure out the extent of my predicament, I carefully began to take stock of my injuries by slowly lifting and flexing each of my legs. A few seconds later – after a flurry of complicated mathematical calculations and extrapolations – I determined that I’d probably be sitting in that chair for about four years, give or take a calendar season or two.

While not surprised by this turn of events – stupid birthday! – I was still disappointed, mainly because moving around freely would no longer be an option for quite a while, and – like an idiot – I’d never followed up on one of my brilliant ideas, which had been to move my refrigerator right next to my living room chair, in case of an emergency just like this or an extreme attack of laziness. On the bright side, I had been smart enough to log into work the previous night and take a day of PTO, picking an Absence Reason of “Lower Portion of Body no Longer Functional.” So, at least I was covered there.

With my entire day free, I quickly realized that I could devote all of my time to sitting in my chair and stressing out over worst-case scenarios. Now, I’m sort of a master at stressing out over things, and it didn’t take me long to conjure up all sorts of convoluted end-games, most of which involved me wearing a full-length body cast up until the day I retired. Realizing this wasn’t healthy, I soon came to the conclusion that I should probably go and have a doctor check things out, just so I’d know which worst-case-scenario I was dealing with (“Your knee will literally fall off in about a day or so. Oh, and you have bad breath.”)

Happy to have something to do besides sitting in my stupid chair – which I was quickly beginning to hate – I made a bunch of phone calls and got myself scheduled at a nearby orthopedics clinic, then arranged a ride to and from. Pleased with my efforts, I leaned back and tried to relax. A moment later, however, I realized that I’d have to find a way to get out of my chair, which I couldn’t envision happening without the help of a crane and a well-placed hole in my roof. So, after about five seconds of blissful relaxation, I was firmly back on board the Stress Train.

Several ulcers and a few hours later, my ride showed up. Calling upon a well of inner strength I didn’t even know I had, I was able to get up and out my chair and make it out into the waiting car. Still, it wasn’t pretty. The entire process was a symphony of grunts, groans, hops, and shuffles, complete with the help of a stool that I used as a sort of makeshift walker. Like I said, it wasn’t pretty, and I shudder to think of it now.

Once I arrived at the clinic, however, it was free sailing, as I was able to upgrade from my makeshift walker to a full-blown wheelchair. This was easily the best part of my day. In fact, it was so fun that I may have made engine noises with my mouth as I was wheeled into the building: “Vroom, vroom!” After getting myself checked in, I passed the time by trying to master the chair’s controls, all while trying not to accidentally run over anybody passing within several feet of me. This little game managed to amuse me until it was time to be seen by the on-call doctor, who broke the ice by saying, “So, you’re a mess, huh?” Telling myself that he was only stating a fact, I fought back the urge to reply, “Well, you don’t look so hot yourself, buddy!”

After some poking and prodding, I was sent to get a few X-rays, despite the fact that I was sure I hadn’t broken anything. Still, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to make a quick getaway or anything, and so I relented. Upon being wheeled into the X-ray room (“Vroom, vroom!!”), a group of technicians swarmed over me. Eventually, one of them said – and I’m paraphrasing here a bit – “So, you have a bad left knee and a bad right ankle, huh? And you can’t walk or bear any weight at all? Well, stand over here for a prolonged amount of time, so we can run off into another room and take some pictures at our leisure.”

Luckily, getting out of the wheelchair for the X-rays turned out to be much easier than getting out of my chair at home, since the X-ray room is build for people who can’t walk. There are handles and railings and poles everywhere that can be used to haul yourself up and move yourself around on, and I soon felt like a cross between a model at a photoshoot and a gymnast on the parallel bars. (“Now turn this way and stick out your ankle! Good! Now look back over your shoulder! Beautiful! Now spin this way and show me your knee! Perfect! Now get up and stop crying!”)

In the end, the official diagnosis was a sprained ankle and a sprained MCL, which was seriously welcome news, as avoiding tears and ruptures had been my best-case scenario. I was issued crutches and a walking boot and sent on my merry way, with orders to get an MRI on my knee to verify that no additional damage had been missed. (“The MRI reveals that your knee has fallen off, and also that you have bad breath.”) I was then to come back for a follow-up appointment.

After being driven home, I used my new crutches to grunt, shuffle, hop, and groan my way back into the house, at which point I collapsed into my chair, vowing to never move again, even if I had to have Dominos deliver right into my lap. Armed with some newly purchased supplies and ice packs, I was soon left alone to fend for myself. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was only mid-afternoon, which meant I had an awful lot of time to kill before I got to go to bed. Luckily, I had books to read, an iPad to rot my brains, and a ceiling to stare up at blankly for endless hours on end. Plus, tomorrow would be less boring, as I’d decided I was ready to rejoin the working force and WFL (Work From La-Z-Boy). That, however, is another story.