Monday of last week was proof positive that the life-changing experience I went through a year ago really wasn’t all that life-changing.
Except for climbing ladders and actually running, my ability to maneuver through the world had returned to essentially the same as it had been my entire adult life. I was driving where I needed to drive, mowing our lawns, walking around the neighborhood and up and down the aisles of our local grocery and home improvement stores.
My below-the-knee amputation had ceased to be a handicap, at least in my mind. It was the feeling of independence I had been striving for since I left the hospital that warm day last September after two weeks of relearning how to do practically everything.
That success was celebrated with a trip with my son and his buddy to the Mizzou-Buffalo game in early September at Faurot Field, a sold-out and raucous Zou that made me proud to wear the gold and black.
So proud that I had no concerns setting out on the mile-plus hike from the on-campus parking garage to the stadium, no worries ascending (most of the way) to Row 75 on the shaded west side.
I say “most of the way,” because in these pre-renovation years, Missouri’s college football palace still lacks handrails on the steps ascending to the top 25 rows or so.
As well as I’ve been getting around with my prosthetic leg, I still require a handrail to get myself up more than two to four steps.
I hadn’t climbed more than a few steps, very gingerly, before a fellow Tiger fan noticed my issue and offered me the end seat on his row. My son and his buddy went on up to our seats and made concession runs for me.
Jake did insist that I wait on Stadium Drive while he ran to get the car after the game, and we were home a couple of hours later – I thought no worse for the wear.
I was sore for the next few days, but it was the kind of sore one gets after a particularly strong workout, a long hike in the mountains, or, in the ancient past, a weekend putting up hay. Kind of a trophy, if you will.
At some point, I noticed that I had developed a slight scab on the bottom part of my leg – the stump, they call it. It wasn’t really visible to me, but I did as my prosthetic maker recommended and bandaged it daily for a week or two.
It seemed to be improving, right up until last Tuesday. That’s the day I rarely put my “leg” on as I spend the day putting together the week’s newspaper. But after my deadline, I needed to run a couple of errands. Grabbing my prosthetic, I discovered my leg wasn’t fitting. Not only that, it hurt to even try to make it work.
Closer examination revealed a swollen, angry mess. One that brought to mind the foot that started this journey a year ago.
My immediate suggestion when I called Laurie, who was in Minnesota last week, was that I would let my doctor know what was going on the next day. That plan was rejected as just silly about as quickly as I could relate it.
I soon found myself on the way to the emergency room, where another infection was found – likely caused by my lack of adding Neosporin to my post-Mizzou treatment plan.
Of course, like last year, I wasn’t going home, and still haven’t. One calendar week later and I’ve undergone surgery to remove an infected abscess, I’m fitted with a device called a wound-vac, which attaches to the still-open incision and draws fluid from the vacated area, allowing the wound to heal from the inside.
That will eventually happen, but I’ll be back in my wheelchair and out from behind the wheel of my pickup for at least the next three months. I’ll also need a new prosthetic, which may add time to the process. But I’ve got a “leg” up this time.
This time, I know for a fact this battle is winnable.
Commentaires