notageek

The rest of my existence is going to be ruled by my ankle. If I need to lose weight, it’s probably because I need to put less stress on it. If my physical activity is limited by something other than my hideous level of conditioning, it’s probably because of my ankle. If I can’t work too long, it’s because my ankle is swelling and hurting again. In my old age I will probably get hideous osteoarthritis in that ankle, although all this surgical business was an attempt to mitigate that risk.
It’s fine when I get up, and for the first six or so hours of work. After I come back from lunch, the nagging ache starts, and by the time I’m home, repackaged in jeans and lying on the couch, it fucking hurts. Nothing like right after surgery, but enough that I’ll reach for my rapidly-dwindling pile of post-op opioids so I can sleep. And since I rarely stand as much on my days off as I do at work, I’m fine then.

Last week I had my last post-op appointment with The Reassembler—the orthopedic surgeon who bolted the floating end of my tibia back into place. I declined to have the pins taken out, as I have no desire to ever be put under general anaesthesia again, and he declared my ankle to have a clean bill of reossification. My range of motion is close to normal again and my strength is returning. My left calf is now only visibly smaller than the right one, rather than grossly so.

But I forgot, in the cheery sunlight morning of the 9:00 appointment, how much it can hurt at night. My thresholds for pain are de-escalating to my normal wimpy thresholds—which is a good sign overall, but really sucks in the meantime.

I should’ve asked for more drugs.