This past Monday I made my virgin visit to what other injured folks have referred to as the “Physical Terrorist”. No, no; they are inherently not malicious individuals and their intensions are for the best. Their goal is to see one fully rehabilitate from any injury and I fully believe that PT personnel do have your best interests in mind.
I have a plethora of exercises to perform in order to get my leg back to full working status. According to the Orthopedic surgeon, the two plates, three pins and six screws that lie beneath the shallow surface of the skin of my ankle are now being absorbed by my fibula. I’m ready to rebuild the leg that I call Rome.
As a side note on the hardware/fibby; I derived great pleasure a few days ago when I told my two sisters and mother that I would hold them at gun point the next time we rendezvoused… I would make them touch the screw sitting at a 30 degree angle that you can clearly see the outline just above the ankle bone. To which they replied, “EWWWWW, GROSSSSSSSSS!!!! I’LL PUKE!!!”
Of course, I laughed hysterically.
I did give up the scooter, however, the nicknames have stuck. That’s quite alright. I’ll just chalk these up as terms of endearment. The rehab process is more arduous than riding around upon my aluminum steed. It’s painful, it’s sore, it at times feels as if there is a group of indigenous peoples from a foreign land poking red-hot needles into the bottom of my foot during a right of passage ceremony. As long as I get my leg back, I guess I’ll join the ranks of those who follow the, “No pain, no gain,” mentality.
Walking for a week I figured it was time to try my hands (and leg) at the manual transmission. I was ready. I was psyched. The leg was ready. John and I were at the local grocery mart; I didn’t care about food. I cared about driving the car home. The groceries were loaded. I got in the driver’s seat; I clicked the seat forward to my bodily specifications. I took a deep breath. I can do this. I can drive this car. I can drive this car NOW.
Hell yes. I made sure the parking brake was on. I put the shifter in neutral. I placed my hands at ten and two. I looked forward through the windshield with determination; I would conquer this task as though it were a computer with a run-of-the-mill Trojan virus at work. I was ready.
I couldn’t even depress the clutch into the floor half way. I was devastated. I felt deflated like that balloon that you tried to hold onto during your sixth birthday and the helium leaked out and sunk to the floor within a day and a half. I almost broke down but I didn’t. I said aloud, “Fuck” and with a bowed head retreated to the passenger seat; where I have been since the fourth of February.
If I can say, at this moment, I was thinking something so rudimentary.
“This is fucking stupid.”
And it was. I knew I wasn’t ready. My left calf muscle is still the meat the vultures wouldn’t pick if the nuclear holocaust were to happen.
But I am determined. I will be ready soon. I will find you. You will see me at a stop light and I will look over to you with the, ‘Do you want to drag’ snarl. I will blow you off the line like a NASCAR driver under the influence pure adrenalin racing for the win. You will fear me. You will.
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