Prognosis

I’m crutching all around the hospital today. For some reason, they’ve designed it so that the orthopedist is in the basement in a small office that’s only reachable by snaking through several very long hallways. The radiology department—where he sends nearly every patient to get an X-ray after first seeing him—is upstairs at the opposite end of the building, in an entirely different wing, down another set of long, zig-zagging hallways. Thank goodness that I’ve been doing my strength training and have these triceps in gear!

After crutching for what feels like 30 minutes, I’m sitting back in his office waiting: waiting for him to come back in, waiting to hear why my foot is not getting better, waiting for an action plan. I start working myself up into an anxious state, flirting with a full-blown panic attack. I have my huge headphones on to drown out the rattling of the heating unit that seems to be situated in the wall behind his office rooms. I wear my noise-blocking headphones without exception when I go on most errands, unless I’m certain the place is very quiet or I’m accompanied by someone (in which case, it would be rude). I’ve also been wearing my winter beanie basically as part of my daily get-up since November (at least I have three!). It not only keeps me warm, but it tamps down my little flyaway curls that otherwise blow as I move—a guaranteed fast-track to throwing me into sensory overdrive.

The thick hat and the enormous headphones are quickly sending me into overheated territory. Thermoregulation and body temperature awareness are significant challenges for me with SPD. I seem to have to no idea if I’m trending towards becoming too hot or too cold until I’m beyond the point of easily reversing the situation and re-establishing comfort. This is one of those moments. It seems I am still dressing for January and it’s in the 60s outside. I begin to sweat. Anxiety is indubitably contributing to this heat flush, but my down coat isn’t helping. This doctor makes me nervous and so does this injury. I have a premonition it’s not going to be a favorable prognosis. My foot throbs as if to remind me, yes, I’m here and I really hurt. I don’t need the reminder but the throb won’t be silenced.

For some reason, once I’ve identified that I am, indeed, too hot, I do nothing to remedy it. I keep waiting.

I wish Ben was with me. He’s at work so I send him a text telling him I’m bored. I’m sure he knows to substitute in the word scared or lonely. I do multiplication problems in my head while I wait; over the years, I have found this to have a mild relaxant effect. 243×77

Finally, my doctor enters after reviewing my x-ray. Even though I struggle to interpret facial expressions appropriately, his is a clear tell.

It’s not good news.

I need surgery. He will insert an intermedullary screw, which is essentially a screw that gets drilled longitudinally into the metatarsal bone marrow. It will help my fracture heal.

The word surgery doesn’t jive well with runner or anxiety-riddled—both of which are equally understated adjectives to describe me.

So that’s where I am today: just wrapping my head around this next hurdle and working on convincing myself that I’ll be fine and this will ultimately be the best treatment. I will and it is.

I’m sure that I’ll have a lot of thinking and writing to help me digest this but I’m actually feeling like the depression might be lifting a little bit. Even though this is a scary proposition, it will ultimately help me heal. April 25th sounds like a good day to have surgery anyway, right?