Muscle Memories

Sometimes I forget high school biology. Sure, duh, I know that the brain interacts with the muscles via motor skills, but sometimes it takes fracturing your tib/fib to get the point. Maybe I would have scored an A in bio if I used my body as a study guide/exhibit for dissection. NOT. 

Relearning how to use your legs is more than just baby steps. A part of my new routine is standing on something that resembles a cross sectioned beach ball. I have to keep balance so that my stiff ankle can re-record the action the muscle performs as a muscle memories. That way I have greater dexterity when I'm walking off a curb or busting a move on the dance floor. 

The body never ceases to baffle me. The fact that the lack of leg activity has not only shrunk my calf, but also caused my muscles to forget its ingrained functions. WHOA. 

no pain no gain

It's no surprise that I do everything in my power to avoid pain. In high school, I participated in the low impact sports of track and crew. If an opportunity for conflict erupted from an aggressive classmate, I negotiated a cease fire, made strategic alliances with older kids (and hot girls), and just played Switzerland. My idea of rough housing was climbing trees and seeing how long I could ignore my mother's pleas to come down for dinner. 

I knew one misstep could send me to the emergency room. That's where pain is celebrated for its most traumatizing achievements. Pain gets accolades when you receive a cast on your foot, crutches to bear your weight on, and unlimited hours of daytime television. The only perk is that you get your cast signed by the cute boy that you really wanted to become "friends" with, but of course he's absent that day or rather he's the one person that doesn't care about your accident. 

Anyway, I figured I take extra precautions in my ascent to the top of the tree. Double check each branch to see if it could handle your weight. Know that the limit comes before the sky so never reach too high. Should have taken my eight year old advice when I was barreling down Tasker Avenue on my bike in pursuit to make it home in record time from god-knows-where- at-4 am. Sadly, I didn't make it across Passyunk and ended up in that damn emergency room. Pain had finally conquered me. 

I was surprised to learn that pain was a lot smarter than I ever gave it credit. It's not the dog you yell "OW" at when it bites you in the leg. Severe pain doesn't strike upon impact, but it likes to assess the damages and test out a few bruises and fractures. Before it seeps into your consciousness, pain's more compassionate, yet distant cousin adrenaline barges in to provide initial support that prepares you for what's next.

Pain is spoken on a scale from 1-10 with doctors and nurses. If you can utter, " a sharp 8 with increasing potential for a 9," that will guarantee you a four day post-op hospital stay with morphine drip on the house. The metal rod now permanently lodging in your leg will activate a steady 7 for a good week. When you are speaking in 5s and 6s, you are sent home with a goodie bag of Percocet and Vicodin. You make up modifiers to get your point across for anything below a 3. This works well in physical therapy when the Jane Fonda leg lifting causes you to a have a slight but achy 2, which excuses you from completing the ridiculous exercise.  

However, when reach those levels, your time for easy sympathy is running low along with your stash of pain pills. Pretty soon everyone will want you to quit your whining, learn how to walk again, and get back to work. At least I can count on the isolated 2-and-3 level pain to check in through the metal rod to let me know a storm is a-brewing. 

  

THE DAY AND LIFE OF A CRIP ON THE MEND

Every morning at 7:30, I am summoned downstairs for a breakfast of Kashi's Autumn Wheat cereal, a cup of Lipton hot tea with SweetNLow, and an orange from the farmer's market down the road. This is after I inject myself with Lovenox, which unfortunately does not make me more desirable as the name suggests, but surely prevents blood clots from forming in my atrophied leg.

Meanwhile my father, a dependable chap, follows me as he juggles a tote bag of miscellaneous items, a cushion to prop up my leg, and the commode that provides support when I perform bowel movements. Which is like waiting for Old Faithful to erupt on schedule. Regardless, such performances are very important to record for the visiting nurse, who comes 2-3 times per week.

In the kitchen, my mother is anxious to the pour the milk so I try my best to hobble down the two flights of stairs. Once I arrive, I plop in a large armchair, adjust my leg in an upright position, and turn on the TV. I think Cybill is on Lifetime. Welcome to my new office.




This is not a charmed life, but one of mandatory leisure. I am now subject to bad television, writing poems about pinball machines, and verbose blogging for the Twitter crowd. All under the influence of Vicodin. If I sound like Bea Arthur (RIP), it's because Golden Girls comes on 9am on the Hallmark Channel.