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I'd really like to get a break somewhere with some endeavor.
so more leg drama, and I may have shared this way back when, so kindly bear with me ;o)
about 2 months after the first knee replacement I was outside watering plants on my deck. my feet became tangled in the hose, I slipped and fell about 3 feet to the ground. I passed out due to the pain and after I woke up it took me about 45 minutes to get to the door which was about 20 feet away. I was alone, of course, I'm alone about 90% of the time out here. As soon as I got inside I called the surgeon to make an appointment as I was concerned I really messed something up. they got me in 2 days later as I recall. not only was the knee in incredible pain, mid femur was throbbing as well. the surgeon checked my knee, manipulated it and told me I was ok. what about the femur? oh you just bruised it, ice it, you'll be fine. about a month later I had to go to D.C. for the internment of my father in law's ashes at Arlington. I stayed at my son's girlfriends apartment and he had a grand time showing us around. we got a private tour of the white house, taken to the offices of many muckity mucks and so on. stayed for 5 days and of course chameleon that he is, son blended seamlessly into D.C. culture which meant you take the subway. everywhere. and walk. a lot. I was bound and determined I wasn't going to be whiney so I popped vicodin like tic tacs and swilled white wine like a politician. by the time I got back home I could barely walk.
back to the surgeon; "it REALLY hurts Doc" he checked the knee, twisted it, yanked on it and determined it was a sound joint. "yeah, but the thigh!" oh you probably had some bone bruising and irritated it with all of the walking. ice it, keep it up and take it easy for a few days. This is May
July I find my Dad is dying so I fly to New Mexico. They live in a 3 story house on the side of a mountain at about 7000 feet altitude. up and down, back and forth, in and out of hospitals and so on. I'm in agony, get in touch with an old friend and obtain some grass so I'm smokin like Cheech and swilling like Dean Martin. Dad dies. I go back home for a week then fly to Tucson to take a bus to the middle of the Sonoran Desert to meet my mother in law to work on the father in law's estate. little mountain town where it's easier to walk than drive because of parking. I buy every bottle of white wine I can find in town and pop vicodin like tic tacs. I'm in agony. I start getting up in the middle of the night to go out to the pool and lounge on the steps so there is no weight or pressure on my leg. I leave after 2 weeks, take a bus to the border and then fly home. I hurt so damn bad by then I could barely manage a coherent sentence. This is August.
I give myself 2 weeks of complete relaxing to see if everything will calm down. it does. barely. back to the surgeon, same games with checking the joint and a lecture about abusing opiates. tells me everything is fine. I burst into tears and tell him it wasn't and demand he check my thigh he manipulates the muscle, squeezes down to the bone and says it's fine but he would take an xray just in case. this is September
I go home expecting a call any day to give me the xray results, nada. finally I call in and get the oh! no one contacted you for an appointment? schedule a follow up for the next week. It's almost October.
go in and the surgeon tells me it's an "enfarq" my only concept of that word is in the world of heart disease. he then tells me it's essentially a stress fracture. really? 6 months later and you're telling me this? so I ask how do I heal from this? "oh take it easy, stay off your feet as much as possible." seriously Doc? I live on a farm and am alone 90% of the time? you have to cast me and put me on crutches to get downtime.
fast forward. my femur has become necrotic
can we all do a happy dance for the never wrong surgeon?
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