Saga of the Foot - Part 5

Well, my commentless readers, this is it. The part where... I yell at you some more for remaining silent! Blogspot's analytics say SOMEONE is reading my posts, but no matter how many times I ask, no one comments. I'd like to know if I'm doing well or poorly.

Why, yes... As a matter of fact I AM rather needy. (Send hugs.)

That out of the way, we've reached the part where I lose a few pounds in just one hour. In terms of a weight loss program, I do not recommend amputation.

The first step was a visit to my Primary Care Physician - PCP - to be cleared for surgery. Between September 2011 and October 2018, I had 15 different surgeries, most of which were on my feet. (The vitrectomy and cataracts surgeries are in there somewhere.) Thus, having my PCP look under the hood, check the oil, and kick the tires was old hat by now.

It was as I was leaving his office that this very real exchange occurred. I love telling this story because it sets the tone of my public attitude about what happened to me. The nurse - a sweet, empathetic woman - was somewhat melancholy as I was leaving. "Well," she began, "I guess we'll see you... after."

To which I replied with an oddly cheery voice, "Yup. Next time you see me, I'll be a foot shorter."

She lost it, nearly coming to tears with laughter. Some people, however, are reluctant to laugh. They know I'm joking, but don't want to laugh at my loss. If I didn't want people to laugh, I wouldn't tell the story. And in case you're wondering, this is 100% true.

The basics of my BKA - Below the Knee Amputation - were simple enough. I'd be knocked out. They'd do a nerve block for my lower leg. They'd cut and cauterize what they needed to. Post op, I'd have to wear a brace for two weeks to prevent contracture. Contracture is when the muscles and tendons permanently tighten, causing a serious decrease in range of motion. If that happened, learning to walk again with a prosthetic would have been next to impossible.

I'm going to show you the brace, but the picture requires an explanation. You see, the best investment I've ever made in my entire life was the $1.07 I spent on a bamboo back scratcher at a dollar store. This thing's been a life-saver! Knowing I was going to be hospitalized for a while, I made sure to pack it with my other belongings. Combine the back scratcher with the brace and we wound up with the following picture and caption:

"Rob has already fallen victim to Medicare

cuts. His prosthesis is less than adequate."

Oh... That thing strapped higher up on the brace was to prevent it from chafing my other leg. Velcro somehow manages to make life easier and more difficult simultaneously.

The two weeks after the surgery are kind of blurred. I was, after all, on copious amounts of painkillers. But here are some of the highlights.

1. I learned a thing about amputations, or at least the style that I got. (Different situations require different procedures.) When they removed my foot, they cut my Achilles tendon, and then rolled it and the muscle up, "tacking" it in place on my severed bone. Mind you, I never asked what "tacking" entailed; for all I know, the doctor used a thumb tack to hold it in place.
2. I had two and a half to three hours of physical therapy a day. Every time I was told that if I performed one activity or another for so much time or covered a certain distance, I would score higher on my final evaluation. I took those as challenges. Looking back, I wish I'd done worse, but more on that later.
3. The young physical therapist that was nearly half my age and that I thought was absurdly pretty just had to be the one to assist me in taking my first post op shower. And wouldn't you know it, while waterproofing my residual limb with medical tape and plastic bags, I just had to discover how soft her hands were on my inner thigh! I think that may have been the very first and only time I was thankful for having E.D.
4. Making sure I could get off the floor if I took a fall. I initiated this exercise because I was aware of how alone I'd be at times. A fall was inevitable. Of course, I was lowered to the floor for this exercise. Knocking me over or letting me fall was apparently against hospital policy.
5. Being compared to the late Don Rickles. (Frank's story at the end of that clip is the best!) I feigned a lot of irritation over things that were beyond anyone's control, with reactions so over-the-top that it would get others laughing. I actually found the comparison flattering.
6. Because my amputation occurred right around Halloween, I suggested someone get me a stuffed toy shark so we could tear open its mouth and fit it around the end of my now-incomplete leg. 😁 Toy sharks of the appropriate size weren't available at the time. 
7. The first people to stare at me.

That last one was mostly amusing to myself. I was left at a hospital exit while someone brought a vehicle around to assess if I could get in and out of it. While I was waiting, a mother and her two kids came in. Without even realizing it, all three of them stared at me. With as much excitement as I could muster, I gasped and said, "My first starers!"

Confused, the mother asked, "What?"

I quite happily explained, "You're the first people to stare at me and my loss of limb! Big day for me!" She was immediately apologetic, which I cut off swiftly. "Please... If I was upset, I would have snapped at you and the kids. I'm trying to make light of it so my circumstances don't drive me insane." With a sigh of relief, they moved on while I was wheeled outside to get in and out of a car.

The hospital staff realized early on that I was stable enough to stand without assistance from someone else, so they turned off the alarms that would alert them if I tried to get out of bed unsupervised and a sign was taped to my door to ensure I wasn't interrupted if ever I stood to use the bedside urinal. Somehow, the sign got moved, resulting in...

I guess they were supposed to

knock on my head? 🤔

I said earlier, I wished I'd done more poorly in terms of working toward my final evaluation. The reason why is because I was under the impression that I'd receive a wheeled mobility device when discharged, be it a wheelchair or a knee scooter. But because I did so well during my final evaluation, I was given a bare-bones walker. The exhaustive output level that I'd achieved during physical therapy was now expected of me every day until I was fitted with a prosthetic. At age 51 (at that time), with diabetic neuropathy significantly affecting my hand and arm strength - something they somehow didn't include in their final assessment - and being overweight due to a number of factors that I won't get into now, there was no way I was going to be able to maintain that level of activity.

This is a knee scooter.

This is an average, run-of-the-mill

walker. No AC, no BOSE sound

system, no undercoating.

What they also failed to realize was that there was always someone around during my physical therapy. If I started to lose my balance, someone was there to make sure I stayed upright. When I returned home, the only person around would be my housemate, and he worked 40-ish hours a week. His dog and my cat didn't really count in terms of helping me around the house.

Also, that PT to make sure I could get off the floor if I fell...? Well, I needed it almost immediately.

I'd been home a whole three days and was alone, just me and the beasts, when I decided to get a drink from the kitchen. On the way, I noticed the mat under the dog's food bowl was slightly out of place, making it a potential trip hazard. I made the brilliant decision to use one of the legs of my walker to straighten it. Did I brace myself against the wall? NNNNNNOPE! I skipped that rather vital step in the plan and went right for adjusting the mat.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. One moment, I was standing on my leg. The next, I was gradually tilting toward the floor. The less-than-tender embrace of gravity took over, hastening my descent. I reflexively threw out my leg so my foot could stop my fall. A foot that was no longer there. As though it was scripted, I landed directly on my stump.

There are countless movies in the world in which someone receives a catastrophic injury and simply stands there, screaming. No words. Just a primal scream of agony. Somewhere in my brain, I always thought that was silly. Normal people don't just stand around and scream. They shout invectives. They mentally lock on to something and curse it as the cause of their misfortune.

That's what I thought before I fell. After I fell, I accepted that an uncontrolled, incoherent scream was a part of reality. I lay on the floor, screaming at the top of my lungs for a couple of minutes. The dog, of course, wandered over to let me know she was there to assist in any way she could, which was not at all. Sitting in the doorway to my bedroom was my cat, looking at me as if to say, "Great play, Shakespeare. What're you gonna do for an encore?" 

I crawled to where I could use the kitchen counter to get back on my foot. Sobbing, I collected my drink and returned to my room, where I took a fistful of painkillers.

Okay, I did NOT take a fistful of painkillers. I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid. I remember taking the maximum prescribed dose, even though it was about an hour early. My thinking was that the last dose would be wearing off soon enough, and I really needed the next dose to be working when that happened. HOWEVER, despite the fact that I suffered no detrimental side effects, you should NEVER, EVER overlap doses like this! That's how accidental overdoses occur. 

Something you may or may not have noticed... I used both terms "residual limb" and "stump" to describe what was left of my leg. There are a number of words and phrases in the amputee lexicon. If ever you talk to an amputee, you might want to ask what their preferred label is. Most, like me, probably won't care, but it never hurts to check. 

Here's where I'll end today's post. Coming up... A limb shrinker, a blister, getting fitted for a prosthetic socket, my first prosthetic, fighting to get the dang thing on right, and walking for the first time in six months.