Energizer Bunny

It all started on Friday ...

.. when we woke up and faced a landscape ripe with snow. Suddenly, the trees were heavy and budding branches looked like delicate lace carvings. As I told J, it was rather like living inside an Ansel Adams photograph for a day.

It's been a busy week at work, so Friday night J and I fetched some groceries (hot date night!) in preparation for Saturday A.M. because ...

... my mom arrived on the scene, up to visit for the first time since January. The last time she saw me I was about 48 hours out of the hospital, post-pulmonary emboli, so I'm pleased to report that she thought I looked a great deal better. I was even able to show her how I "walk" (and again, I use only the loosest definition of the term here) with my little old-lady walker and Das Boot. Very sexy, no?

We trolled along Saturday afternoon, visited my great-aunt Anna (more on this in a separate, later post) and then met the fab K & D for my first real dinner out at Ristorante Lucano. It was ... magnificent. For those unfamiliar, Lucano is a little Italian restaurant that lives in a tiny strip mall at the corner of East and Winton. From the outside it looks like nothing -- literally, a hole in the wall, perched near a dry cleaner's and a Subway restaurant. But inside? There are three small rooms and perhaps 18-20 tables, total. It's homey, intimate, a little upscale and oh, lord. Real Italian food: SO GOOD. I had this amazing creamy potato garlic soup, followed by osso buco (a house speciality) and then some ice-cold limoncello. And to finish? A piece of the homemade tirimisu. I learned later from the owner that her mother was the one to make the tirimisu, and it showed. Yes, it was gorgeous, but you could see that this dish was not all about the flash and the sauce swirls and the little pretty embellishments placed just so, but was about the FLAVOR: liquor-soaked lady fingers, marscapone, sweet whipped cream, bitter cocoa powder. And knowing some wonderful little Italian grandmother made it, that this was real and wonderful and amazing? Made it all that much more sweet.

We decided the night was young and so, post-dinner, made our way to Barnes and Noble to close the place out and then finally crashed for the night. The next AM we were up bright and early and at it again, this time heading to James Brown's Place for breakfast. In addition to the standard breakfast of eggs and toast (over-medium and Italian, respectively), I also had the JB Porridge. It changed my life in meaningful ways, and I usually don't even like this stuff! But it was thick with cinnamon and granola and nuts and dried fruit, and it came in a lovely little cup with a tiny pitcher of cream, a little dish of brown sugar, and another little dish of nuts and dried fruit. There are no words for how damn good that was, and I strenuously recommend it to anyone and everyone. And also, I plan to go back for more as soon as I can talk J into it.

And then, to finish out my mom's visit, we made one trip to every good Italian's mecca, as it were:

Savoia Pastry Shoppe is just a killer bakery. You can smell the sugar from a block away, and as soon as you enter you are just seduced by the smells and the sights of Italian cookies and breads and pastry, lined up in glass-fronted displays and stacked on wire racks. We scored some St. Joseph's bread (for tomorrow, you know) and a multitude of other yumminess, including my favorite petit fours.

And then we finally staggered home, clutching white paper bakery bags, tummies full to bursting, so Mom could get on her way home and J and I could mainline some Pepto and recover. Vivia la weekend!

Cel-e-brate Good Times -- Come On!

Today is a great day for many reasons, but the one that makes me smile most is that TODAY IS J'S BIRTHDAY!! Yes, that's right: today J turns 41 years old. As his much, much, much younger wife, I want to take this opportunity to wish him a wonderful day and an amazing year-to-come. Baby, I love you. Thank you for being such a wonderful friend and partner in this crazy life of ours. You're the greatest.

Happy Ham Day

We had a lovely Easter ... J's folks came over for the ritual overeating to celebrate the Resurrection. We had the traditional ham, which has always struck me as odd: who decided that eating baked pork would be the appropriate meal to celebrate the greatest miracle of Jesus, a Jew? It seems like a somewhat poor and disrespectful choice. Just sayin'.

ANYwhooo, we baked the pork and the green beans and mashed potatoes and all sorts of other things, and gorged. For the first time back entertaining since MBLF, it went really pretty damned well. Perhaps the most fun thing was the dessert, made by my mother-in-law: a birthday cake for J (coming this Thursday!) which was a lovely yellow cake with cream cheese frosting ... decorated with Peeps. Strange and funny and true.

In any case, to all of you who celebrate: Happy Easter. And love and peace to us all.

Spring Has Sprung (?Question Mark?)

Today is the first day of spring -- huzzah!

However, you'd never know if based on the view outside of my window. The trees are starting to bud, but there is strong, cold wind and snow in the air. On the ride home tonight I saw the very first robin red-breasts of the year ... they sat, almost motionless, eyes wide in my neighbor's front yard. I imagine that they had been elected as lookouts for the the rest of the robins -- advance scouts, if you will. I also imagine that they were wondering what the HELL they were doing back here when it was so obviously still January and also? Where was the spring? The sun? The prancing, leaping fluffy bunnies? Instead of coming back from their winter vacation (The Carolinas? The Keys? Boca? Who can say?) to a warming earth gracefully sprouting greenly back into life, they were standing in mud amidst icy piles of blackened snow and weathering a storm. It had to be a bit of a shock.

If I were a robin on the first day of spring, I have to believe that I would be hella pissed.

Ciao Italia

There's a place in the northern part of town that I love to visit. It's a store, and for me going there is like visiting a cave of wonders.

It's a true old Italian grocery, filled with sights and sounds and smells that take me back to my childhood. Hand-made gnocci and imported penne fill aisle one. The cantucinni cookies my Aunt Rose used to slide me under the kitchen table are in aisle two, next to the 15 varieties of espresso, the ameretti, marinated anchovies, toothpaste tubes of tomato paste and half-gallon jugs of extra virgin olive oil. On aisle three we find an abundance of riches: large tubs of almond paste, creamy toblerone, bulk pignole and ceci beans, jordan almonds, fresh loaves of crusty bread, homemade bread crumbs.

Finally, aisle four. AH, aisle four. Here we encounter the backbones of Italian cuisine: the butcher and the cheesemonger. Sausages stuffed with fennel; deep red meats, rich with creamy veins of marbling; slabs of white, flaky bacala; tins of fresh-made ricotta, whey dripping down the sides; enormous hanging rounds of provelone and parmesean; salumi glistening red and sweet under the florescent lights; prosciutto cut to order by the pound (three types: U.S, Canadian and imported Italian) ... it's all there.

Old men in suit coats, felt hats and black canes resting quietly beside them, sit at little tables, sipping espresso and speaking as much with gesturing hands as with accented voices. Cannoli line up insider display cases, dotted with candied orange rind and rolled in chocolate chips. A tower of bimbi, rich in shining foil wrapping, sit next to the cookies-by-the-pound, awaiting Easter.

And the smells. There really are no words to describe the smell of tens of years of cooking sauce and fresh grated parm and roasting meats and drying herbs and All Things Good. The smell clings to my clothes when I leave, and invariably on the ride home I find myself burying my face in my sleeve to catch one last whiff of heaven.

Once, not long after my grandfather's passing and the sale of the family home, I walked in with my husband. As is my custom I paused just over the threshold to take a deep breath, feeling my muscles relax into the familiarity, and my husband, as is HIS custom, said his ritual phrase: "Smells just like Grandma's house." And it did, the smells of my childhood, the smells of my family, many years past, history soaked into the walls and floor of the house on Holley St. And I knew at that moment that phase of life was over, never to be revisited, and that this moment just inside the grocery store doorway was as close as I would ever get again. And surrounded by the hustle and bustle, standing underneath an old and somewhat faded Italian flag, I took in a deep breath of the past and wept.

The Fun Never Stops

I am fully expecting the plague of locusts at any moment now.

Seriously.

See, my tooth has been hurting. And I? Am not very fond of oral pain. So, like the wuss I am, I called my dentist, Will Hurtt DDS (and yes, that's his name. No lie. I even asked to see his ID the first time I met with him.), and set up a time to wheel in and take a look.

Dr. Hurtt is very clearly aware that I am a total, absolute baby when it comes to dental work. He is aware of this because I have told him so in no uncertain terms. Hey, I have a phobia ... and Dr. Hurtt knows that, as much as I enjoy him *personally*, I absolutely hate having to see him. So today, once he had taken some images and evaluated, he phrased the bad news thusly: "Colleen, I think we need to emotionally prepare you for what we have to do here."

Nothing good ever comes of this phrase. Because the news for which I needed to prepare essentially is that on Monday I have to go see a lovely endodontist and have a ROOT CANAL. And if that doesn't give me the total heebies and the jeebies, I don't know what does. See what I mean about the freakin' locusts? Any second now ...

Not only that, but I couldn't go to the first doc referred because his office isn't wheelchair accessible! So I had to find another doc, and now I'm locked in for 11 am on 3-17. Happy St. Patrick's Day to me! Is there an Irish soup I can eat to celebrate Monday night?

Pooped

Today was yet another big day: my first full day back at work (whew) and my first physical therapy appointment (double whew).

Work was basically the same as half-day, but doubled. I got to experience trying to get lunch from the cafeteria via wheelchair (Jules and Alicia helped -- thanks, girls!) and also just juggling double the amount of ... stuff. It was good, in a way, though I was beyond exhausted at the end of the day: I think full days are going to help me feel more like I fit in and am still part of the team, something I've been struggling with. My team ROCKS and have been just awesome to me, but it's hard to fit into a Colleen-shaped hole when the Colleen-shape itself has changed. And that? Was a totally sucky metaphor. Sorry, I'm tired. Let me try again, in plain English: I've changed (it would be hard not to have, honestly, given all that's happened), as has work, and I need to figure how the "new" me and the job fit together now.

Man, I really AM tired.

OK, on to a new topic: physical therapy ahoy! I started PT tonight, and am excited. It hurt, but it was good. I stretched and have new exercises, and actually walked 10 feet or so with no boot and a walker ... if you consider "lurching across the floor inch by inch as though possessed by the spirt of Frankstein's monster" to be walking. As of late I've really learned to count my blessings so I DO count it, even if it took me approximately five minutes to walk those 10'.


Once the stretching and lurching was done, I was attached to the electrostim machine where little electrodes were stuck to my ankle/foot and delivered continuous electrical "stim" (aka "shocks") to "stimulate" (aka "ouch") my muscles. See my leg attached, above.

While I was sitting being "stimmed" (aka "No, really -- ouch"), I noticed this blue bad boy on the wall. This, friends, is the BAPS board. Remember that name, because I can almost guarantee I will be spending large amounts of time with that blue devil before all is said and done.

For the record: I hate the BAPS board. It works, but it sucks.

Eventually, after working for nine hours and PT-ing for one, I finally made it home with some Chinese takeout and a yen for sleep. Which is where I'm headed now, actually, but I wanted to share this photo with you. It's me -- or, rather, my feet. Both of them, broken left and slightly twisted right. On the floor, together, no boot. No nothing. Just me, my feet and the floor, standing, the way it should be.

Amen.

Rise Up, and Be Healed!

Today was the big day -- the pivotal appointment with the fabulous Dr. Gorczyca. Let me walk you through it
This is the building where my doctor lives, or at least practices medicine. It's building D, and it's dedicated to orthopaedics and rehab. I go upstairs, check in and then ...



... J and I park it in the first of several waiting rooms. This is the big lobby, where a cast of dozens sits in casts, braces, splints and bandages. Eventually a tech comes for me, and I wheel into the radiology waiting room (yes, my doc's office has it's own, fairly large radiology suite. How cool is THAT?). After my usual series of three x-rays (front, turned left and turned right), I'm wheeled out and ...


... now we're in waiting room #3 of the day. Each waiting room has gotten progressively smaller, and now we're in the little 10-seater. There are a number of doctors in this particular practice, and each group has its own internal waiting area. This is the area for Dr. G. Before too long, my lovely tech fetches me again and we're off to patient room 5. It's small and cozy, and J and I will be there hanging out for a while. Interestingly, my new x-rays have been put into the system already and are pulled up on the room's computer screen. I couldn't resist so ...

... voila! The inside of my broken left foot, views 1 through 3. Just in case you can't see all of my shiny new metal, I took a close up:

Note the ankle hardware from the '97 surgery, and the new foot screw holding things together from the '07 surgery. Pretty, no?

Dr. Gorczyca comes in at this point with his little entourage. Hands are shaken all around, and Dr. G asks what I've been up to. My answer: "Healing." The two orthopaedics groupies go over my case, look through my CT scan and previous x-rays. There is much oooh-ing and ahhh-ing but not in a good, "look-at-how-cool-this-is" way. Dr. G says "This was a very bad injury." I hate it when Dr. G, as chief orthopaedic resident, says that stuff. He looks through today's x-rays, and then ...

"IT'S HEALED." And just like that, the world opens up again. Dr. G believes that finally, 13 weeks after surgery, the bones are healed and in good position. He doesn't know how well I'll be able to walk, after all this: in the spirit of full disclosure, he tells me that walking may ALWAYS hurt. I may always limp. I may always need a cane. It's the way it is. However, I'm determined to get back as much as I can. And, you know, also procure the coolest canes I can possibly find.

So, I'm cleared for weight-bearing (just a little weight for now, increasing as we go), and PT will be twice a week. As a matter of fact, I'm starting PT tomorrow night: no time like the present and all that. Again, Dr. G has basically warned me that PT is going to be ... un-fun. I expect the pain, and it's ok. I'm sure I'll bitch about it, and hate it a lot, maybe even cry a little, but in the end it will teach me to walk again and to live again, so it's ultimately ok with me.

Dr. G wrote me a prescription for PT, and shook my hand. "You've made it. I know it was hard, but you did a good job. Congratulations, you're healed." And with those words, Dr. G and the G-ettes are off, and I'm on to the next phase of living.

Inside, It's So Delightful

It's been a very cozy indoor type of weekend for me. Friday night my dear friend Holly (aka "Fishy") came over for some nibbles. We had chips and veggie sub and whatnot, and spent the evening listening to the 80s music channel and giggling madly. We said "Hello" to Lionel Richie and Wang-Chunged and basically had a fun time.

By the time Fishy left it was really snowing and when J and I woke up on Saturday A.M. it was blowing and dark and there appeared to be lots and lots of snow. The day was spent indoors (my wheelchair and snow are not friends), puttering about. We were basically rutabegas. Our friends the Lugers called to stop over, which was lovely: we always enjoy seeing them and spending time catching up. Jun had made the most AMAZING steamed buns ever - the ginger flavor was intense -- and so we visited and ate. Man, I could eat those things all day, every day! Thanks, Lugers. Once they left J and I put our feet up, listened to some mellow tunes and sipped cocoa. It was a nice way to close the day.

Now it's cold and the snow has ended -- it's very, very sunny but only about 20 degrees (wind chill is 9). There are about 14-18" of snow out there, with much more in the drifts. J is out with the snowblower, and I'm making a grocery list, planning what cookies to make this evening ... we are nothing if not the very PICTURE of domesticity.

Tomorrow is the big appointment with Dr. G, and also marks 13 weeks since surgery (14 since the initial injury, 10 since the broken lungs). Keep your fingers crossed that the doc has good news and that we can start rehabbing MBLF!

Wednesday is the Hopeful Day

Wednesday IS the hopeful day, isn't it? Half the week is gone, and just a few days remain until the shining, shining weekend. I do love me a Wednesday ... but not as much as I love a Friday. :)

Today finds me hanging in my "home office," editing away and catching up on millions and millions (ok, 26) of work e-mails. My Bina-cat is curled up next to me on the pink comforter, just chillin' and being all cat-like. Every now and again she uncurls to bat at my bracelet or give a yawn that seems to unhinge her jaw entirely. It's a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

I also have boot off ... my foot needs a teensy-tiny break. The foot actually looks a little better, I think, but I'll let you be the judge.

Outside is all snow and ice, but inside I am toasty and warm and also, craving a whole-wheat english muffin with strawberry jam. Must go, carbs are calling.

Rainy Days and Mondays

Actually, it's semi-sunny (though clouds are moving in) and almost 50 degrees F here, so the title of this post is a tad misleading. It IS Monday, however, so it's not all a total lie. And since it's Monday 3/3, we all know what that means: T-minus one week until my next appointment when Dr. G hopefully tells me that I can (A) start putting pressure on MBLF, and (B) start rehabbing ASAP. Keep your fingers crossed.

I'm actually pretty excited about next week's appointment. I'm also incredibly nervous. I'm having some "what-ifs" -- What if he tells me I have to stay off the foot for four more weeks? What if he tells me it didn't heal correctly? What if he tells me this is as good as it will ever get? What if I stand and put pressure and then reinjure? What if I have to start all over again?

In addition (and I'll be really honest here) I'm not looking forward to having pain again. Though MBLF doesn't feel *good* or even normal most of the time, the acute pain has faded since surgery to the point where it's really not painful, just uncomfortable. And the thing is, I know pain is coming: rehab/PT is actually more painful than dealing with the majority of post-injury recovery, if memory serves. I have to teach my leg how to function again, make muscles and bones and everything else bear weight (and let's face it, it's a LOT of weight) after being on vacation for months and months.

I have to learn to walk again.

It's not easy work, and it takes a loooooong time. It's frustrating when suddenly you can't even stand up long enough to do stupid exercises with a bouncy ball. Your arms and hands hurt from the crutches you have to use. Body parts of which you were never aware suddenly ache at all hours of the day and night. Your "good" leg screams from all of the weight and pressure it's constantly under. Muscle spasms lay you out as your leg just jerks and moves outside of your control. And I don't really take pain meds, to be honest: I generally prefer the sharpness of pain to the numbness of drugs.

So that's the immediate future, but I'm ok with it even if I'm more-than-a-little scared. At the end of this very long road, no more wheelchair. No more walker. No more hopping to the bathroom, and no more lugging around Das Boot. It will be worth it. I know it. Besides, it's not as thought I really have a choice.