Snap! That Was My Ankle Breaking (On Staying Sane One Hour at a Time. . . Life without Running)

There was a snap (two of them actually), a primal scream, apparently coming from me. Confusion. And sky (because I was flat on my back on a pile of leaves), and the sudden realization that somehow I had to, regardless of the golf ball sized instantaneous swelling appearing around my ankle, drag myself back inside, up a flight of stairs, to my phone--all without use of my right leg. Lucky for me, I keep walking sticks all over the property for just such occasions. Not that I'm prone to breaking a bone, but I am prone to falling more than the average five foot eight, All-Leg woman. 

I went into survival mode and said to myself, this is why evolution made sure we came equipped with a shot of adrenaline. It was the adrenaline that allowed me to get to my phone, call my husband, utter very little in the way of actual words other than, "I've broken my ankle" before he was off the phone and on his way home.

Meanwhile, I hobbled to the bathroom, waiting to see if I was going to be ill, because I sort of felt that I might, but instead thought, OMG, I've not showered ALL day, and had just run four miles, plus had been raking leaves and well, ew. (Priorities.) I needed to sponge bath a bit before anyone examined me. Broken ankle be damned! And proceeded to stand next to the shower head and to the best of my ability--clean up, splashing water on my face--which kept me from passing out. Crying, cussing. Well, more cussing than crying. Then called my sister (who had also broken her ankle once) screaming and cussing more.   

This is the second time in thirty-five years I've heard the snap. (BTW, you never forget what breaking bones sound like. Never.) The first "snap"came when I was fifteen years old and had just move to Missouri. Mommy Dearest didn't believe me when I came running in the house screaming: I heard my bone break. . . I broke my arm! Stoicism was a virtue in our home. I was told to calm the hell down, to go lay down and here's two aspirin, I'll check on you in a couple of hours. My mother never was reported to Child and Family Services, but that doesn't mean she wasn't a candidate for such agency. Four hours later and home from the ER there was a lot of OMG, apologies and ice cream. But still. 

This bad parenting moment perhaps saved me from panicking upon hearing the snap again this week. Okay. There was panicking. But more over the fact that my running, the training I was in the middle of, the almost-breaking-ten-minute-mile-average-pace during my last four mile run was DONE. (10:17 minute mile, if you were wondering.) Kaput. Of no use. All for naught. That here it was, middle of the darkest days of the year, the time when I totally rely upon my running to keep me sane, putting in at least twenty miles a week, would all now cease. Hard. Stop. 

When Dr. Thyme arrived, I was white knuckling it, still trying not to puke, quite a hot mess and really near passing out from the pain because apparently the adrenaline thingy lasts only so long. He, upon seeing me, bless his heart, remained calm (which was really important). The trip to the ER was a bit of a blur. And my hyperventilating and shaking were not helping matters. I couldn't control my breathing, couldn't control my shaking--it seemed my entire body was on auto-pilot. I "presented" as someone who may be experiencing a cardiac moment as well. To which I replied, I'm NOT having a heart attack, I've broken my ankle, I'm scared, mad, sad, in PAIN. . . plus suffer from PTSD from childhood traumas. They still insisted they hook me up. And as I predicted, no heart attack. Crying on and off with husband by my side. I tried to be brave, really I did. But truly. . . there's no play book for moments like these.  

(Calm, cool, collected Dr. Thyme as my foot is being put in a splint by two very capable ER attendees who probably would have liked to wrap my mouth with the splint.)

I was lucky for several reasons. First, the ER visit was made way more tolerable after a voice of reason arrived. (Thank heavens.) You never know how grateful you're going to be when someone (your neighbor--a surgical nurse!) comes by and tells you over and over again in detail what exactly is going on, why it's not that bad and it's going to be okay: You'll get through this, bones heal, it could be a lot worse. And she should know given her years of experience in assisting with surgeries. It sobered me up to hear her voice and see her face. I was so grateful. And second, when my next stage of grief arrived, it seemed more level-headed: acceptance. I accepted that I only had a broken ankle. I accepted that I wasn't going to be like "this" for the REST of my life, that these things happen, that that's why they call them accidents and that our bodies are little miracle engines, I WILL heal.

(The break is plainly visible on the left side of the photo--it looks like the little bone is a Muppet and his little mouth is trying to speak: "What are you NUTS, I'm not supposed to bend that WAY?" That's the fibula with a crack right dang through it.)

After the x-rays, you are sent home. NO treatment other than a splint and a directive to see a surgeon in a few days. (Because the swelling needs to go down.) Call me old-fashioned, but I at least expected something akin to a Grey's Anatomy moment. No such luck. Just the facts and the fact was my "distal fibula" was broken. What the? My shock I displayed at the news that my ankle wasn't going to somehow be miraculously "treated/glued back together" right there in the ER sent my husband into laughing hysterics. He says I had the whole head-bobbing, finger-waving, You-mean-that's-ALL-you're-going-to-do-splint-my-ANKLE attitude. Meanwhile, the calm, cool-headed ER doc replied: Yep. (My menopausal self was beginning to assert her opinion and she needed to take a chill pill. For real.) 

The orthopedic surgeon I met with came highly recommended. And he proved to be just the kind of doctor I needed. Efficient, positive, and practical. When you tell an orthopedic surgeon, Hey, I just finished running four miles the morning THIS happened and if I'd known THIS was going to happen, I'd have run TEN--you are probably already starting on a good foot in their eyes. He imagined my bones were in good shape given the running and that my healing would be relatively smooth.

(This is the first look-see after the splint came off. Swelling HAD gone down. Pretty, no? Do I even HAVE an ankle anymore? My god?! It's a Franken-Foot, Kelly!)

Meanwhile, I am in "the boot" and on crutches for six-to-eight weeks and off the ankle completely for three weeks. After the three weeks, I can begin weight bearing in my boot as much as I can "tolerate". Of course my most major concern was, When will I RUN again? He smiled and said, January. I was stunned! Thrilled! Nearly jumping out of my seat onto my broken ankle! Really? Slow running and low mileage, he said, and added, you won't be in any races. I then asked, how about a half marathon in spring? We'll see how the healing goes. I can't imagine how many hysterical menopausal-runners-with-broken-ankle women he sees in a week. But I LOVED his positive attitude.

I am reading everything and anything I can regarding the foot, the ankle, running on a hurt foot or ankle, rehab, balance and the like. I know the chances for re-injury in someone who has broken an ankle are around 80%. I am not going to be in this percentile. Balance is key. And while I can do nothing about being all leg and very little torso, I can work to repair/improve my balance. I found two articles in the New York Times to be of great help. The first article (here) talks about the old ways of thinking about broken ankles and treatments versus the new ways. The second (here) published this summer, discusses the benefits of both functional rehab of the ankle and balance training. Again, any words of wisdom or insight shared is helpful. 

Finally, here's what I've learned about living on crutches so far:

1. I cannot carry my coffee around with me wherever I want. It's a little thing, but way bigger than you can know given my affinity/need for coffee in the morning.

2. I have weak armpits. 

3. I have weak hands, too.

4. A broken ankle/A clutch car--not so much. 

(Oh but I WILL drive her again.)

5. Dogs are terrified of CRUTCHES. Poor babies. Mommy is trying to be as gentle as she can as I bob across the living room, dodging tails.

6. My kitchen mocks me. But not for long because last night I figured out how to chop veggies while on the kitchen stool, turned to one side, foot propped up. Knife skills have much to be desired, but chop I did!

7. Side leg lifts are good for the glutes, which in turn will be good for my legs.

8. Those electronic grocery carts cause serious car sickness for me for reasons I cannot fully comprehend. Feeling "urpy" while you grocery shop sorta takes the fun out of shopping for food.

9. Grocery stores put things at lower eye levels that we don't see on upper eye level. . . like the GIANT bag of smoked almonds we ended up bringing home yesterday.

10. I'm determined to not be depressed during this little life pause. I could be in much worse shape. A thousand other things could have happened. A little more of my "being still" wouldn't hurt. (Check back with me in a week to see how my "determination" holds up.)

11. My husband is my life. Really, my rock. He is on "double duty" while I recuperate. Plus he can really cook! Life is no picnic for him, but he has risen to the occasion like a prince saving his princess. (And I can be a princess sometimes. Just sayin'.)

That's about all for today. I'll keep updating here on my blog. Hopefully soon will be back to throwing down some flour and sugar. I do have a cookie recipe I made the day before the Broken Ankle happened that I want to share. It is, after all, cookie season! And I always have my knitting. Truthfully, the concentration ability has been stunted, so am waiting for all this to shake out some more before really diving in with the needles.