Ding-Dong, the Pin is Dead

Just returned from my monthly visit to the lovely Dr. Gorczyca. We began with our customary three x-rays of my broken left foot, and then I rolled on over to my usual exam room. After a bit of a wait, Dr. G and attending resident (he ALWAYS has a resident with him; it's rather like being treated by an orthopaedic rock star with bodyguard/groupies in tow) came in and we looked at the pretty pictures together. Moment #1 of the visit: I have just a LOT of metal in my leg. I think the tally is at a plate, 5 screws, two pins, a case and a rod (<-- in the ankle), and then a *very* long screw/pin and the removable pin (<-- in the foot). It's very ... bionic.

Dr. G looked at everything and then, "I think we can take that pin out today." And so we were off. My foot was raised, and we looked at the pin. "I'm just going to rotate this a bit," he said, and then suddenly there was this metal rod rotated and sticking about two inches out of my foot, shining in the light of the overhead florescents.

As I adjusted to that particular circumstance, Dr. G grabbed a wad of gauze from the cupboard. I looked at the resident: "I'm not going to look at all." The resident grimaced sympathetically. "Probably a good idea."

Dr. G rolled over on his blue leather stool, and I looked away. I felt warm hands on my cold, elevated leg, and then there was a sudden, unwarned-of wrenching in my foot, a turning, something long and hard scraping along the bones inside, a sharp and deep pain. I gasped and involuntarily looked down; blood welled up and trickled down the side of my arch. Dr. G slapped gauze onto the small, perfectly round hole, lifting only to peer down and assess how quickly the almost-black blood filled in the wound. The pristine gauze crumpled, turning vaguely dark on the inside layers and slowly spreading out in small-yet-vibrant crimson patches.

In his free hand the doctor held up a wicked-looking skewer. He held it up matter-of-factly: "This is what was in your foot." Four inches of steel lay across his palm, blood and antibacterial ointment making it gleam before he reached across and dumped it unceremoniously in the neon orange sharps box. He peeked under the gauze as blood welled again and then pushed down hard enough to make me wince at how weak my foot felt as it tried to hold upright against his hand. "We have a few minutes. Any questions?"

I, of course, DID have questions on my typed and outlined list, questions of which I already knew most of the answers. I go back to Dr. G on March 13, and hopefully that will be the appointment at which I'm told I can start working with therapy and bearing weight. The the fun really begins. I can't wait.

After a slapped-on BandAid and an admonition not to get the foot wet until Wednesday (full showers! full showers!), I slowly wheeled home. The pin pulling took no time at all (it SEEMED like slow motion, but was in reality about a minute from start to finish), and I'm so relieved that it's done. Now we move onward.

And that, my friends, was Monday.

A special note to my M & C team: on Wednesday A.M. expect the return of your favorite (only?) wheelchair-bound assistant director -- as the song says, "the Bitch is back."