Me: "My ankle hurts."
My Sister, Nicole: "Because you refused to go to physical therapy after your surgery, gimpy."
That's been a recurring conversation between Nurse Ratched and I for about 5 years now. I was reminded of her astute medical diagnosis again while showering the other day. I dropped the soap and it ricochet off the shower wall and hit me in the ankle exactly where my surgery incision is. The pain almost brought me to my knees.
Nicole tells me that my unfortunate incident was God's way of telling me to slow down. What happened was, I was in a rush and tripped over a cement curb. I landed with my ankle twisted beneath my body and heard a "pop." It was mis-diagnosed as a sprain for 3 weeks. I hobbled around thinking it would slowly get better but it only got worse. The pain spread up to my knee and when it eventually felt like it was going to explode, I figured it was time to see a specialist who promptly told me I needed surgery. I cried uncontrollably through the whole appointment. I was terrified of surgery. He was a surgeon for the Rockets or the Astros or some sports team which was supposed to impress or reassure me but...who cares? How did I know he wasn't a straight up drunk? Who would my anesthesiologist be? Could be a crack-head. I didn't know these people and they wanted to cut me open? After the consultation, my mom wheeled me out of his office, past the nurses desk, and through the waiting area filled with children. I'm sure they were alarmed by my hysterical crying wondering what was in store for them when the nurse called their name but I didn't care. I wailed all the way to the car.
Nicole tells me that my unfortunate incident was God's way of telling me to slow down. What happened was, I was in a rush and tripped over a cement curb. I landed with my ankle twisted beneath my body and heard a "pop." It was mis-diagnosed as a sprain for 3 weeks. I hobbled around thinking it would slowly get better but it only got worse. The pain spread up to my knee and when it eventually felt like it was going to explode, I figured it was time to see a specialist who promptly told me I needed surgery. I cried uncontrollably through the whole appointment. I was terrified of surgery. He was a surgeon for the Rockets or the Astros or some sports team which was supposed to impress or reassure me but...who cares? How did I know he wasn't a straight up drunk? Who would my anesthesiologist be? Could be a crack-head. I didn't know these people and they wanted to cut me open? After the consultation, my mom wheeled me out of his office, past the nurses desk, and through the waiting area filled with children. I'm sure they were alarmed by my hysterical crying wondering what was in store for them when the nurse called their name but I didn't care. I wailed all the way to the car.
Surgery and recovery weren't any less embarrassing. They ended up putting pins in my ankle and other stuff I didn't want to know the details about. My father took me to get my stitches out and neither of us had the stomach for that. He had to leave the room and I almost fainted. We were quite the pair! I was in a cast, then a boot, then a wheelchair and then crutches. As for physical therapy, I just didn't have the courage to voluntarily subject myself to the pain of someone manipulating my ankle. Do I really need to move it side to side? Nope, I can live with just up and down, thank you.
So now, whenever I complain about my ankle, Nurse Ratched is there to smack me out of my pitty party. It's her form of tough love.
So now, whenever I complain about my ankle, Nurse Ratched is there to smack me out of my pitty party. It's her form of tough love.
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