Nervous because, well, you can't exactly see inside a cast (not that you'd want to) and I was less 0% and more like 3% of the time weight bearing by the last week. Okay, 5%. Still. I wondered whether Nurse Lonnie would cut open the cast and I'd find bones sticking out places or giant festering sores I somehow hadn't felt or smelt or basically any especially horrible thing that would lead them to put me back in a cast. So, nervous enough that I left the boot in the car because I didn't want to seem too presumptuous. Also because I couldn't carry it and steer at the same time.
Then Nurse Lonnie said the words that struck terror into my heart: "I hope you get out of the cast, too, because I'm all out of purple plaster. In fact, I'm out of everything but white today!"
So that pretty much settled it. I frantically scrubbed my naked, stinky foot with a couple of wet wipes and settled in to pray that my 8% weight bearing hadn't done too much damage. Because, (a) you can't wear a white cast after Labor Day, everybody knows that, and (b) white shows dirt and nothing collects dirt, sweat, and dead skin like a white cast you can't take off for another month. <shudder>
Fortunately, my 10% weight bearing didn't seem to have done any harm. In fact, the good doctor was quite impressed with the excellent bone position and spacing, and excitedly contrasted last month's x-ray with this month's x-ray ("See! Look how much more consolidation there is!"). To be perfectly honest, I couldn't tell one x-ray from the other or really how the concept of consolidation applies to either picture, nor could I see the new bone growth he was allegedly pointing at, but believe me, I didn't argue. Had the man told me there was a miniature three-piece giraffe jazz band performing in there, I would have nodded seriously and said, "Oh, yes, DEFINITELY. I see the saxophone." Because whatever he saw was fabulous enough that he was going to let me leave the office without a cast.
|I *never* push myself beyond my limits.|
Nope, never. Not at all. I'd never
climb down 59 steps with a swollen,
So I emailed and texted everyone the good news. For some reason, no fewer than three people immediately responded with admonitions to celebrate cautiously and not overdo it, including my own mother, which is ridiculous considering that I stayed to no more than 12% weight bearing the vast majority of the time, so it's not as though I'm the sort of person who overdoes things. It's like they don't even know me.
Meanwhile, somebody at home *was* preparing a lovely celebration for me. I came home, sat down, and put my hand in a lovingly prepared, freshly made hairball, comprised mostly of white fur, left thoughtfully at the foot of my bed.
While the culprit hasn't confessed, I think there is sufficient evidence to establish guilt or innocence, at least to the same standard as your average Senate judiciary hearing.
|Expression of startled defensiveness. Immaculately groomed long, white fur. Wide staring eyes.|
Ears pointed in opposite directions, as though looking for the opportunity to flee the jurisdiction.
Guilty! Guilty of all charges.
So, there you have it--the cast is gone and I'm continuing my transition to healing. And tonight? Well, tonight, I bathe!