Facing my Fears. Facing Reality

It's snowing again.

From my bed it looks beautiful as the snowflakes drift slowly past the window, landing somewhere below my line of vision on the cold, brittle ground below.

But the view out the front door looks anything but beautiful to me:

Tomorrow morning I have to somehow hobble out that front door and make my way down those icy steps again (the thought alone makes me shudder!), as I have my two-week post-surgical appointment at Harborview Medical Center. As far as I know, I'll be getting my stitches removed and a permanent cast (suitable for signing!). I will also hopefully have the opportunity to have a myriad of questions answered.

I've been looking for answers to all my questions, and so far I don't like what I'm learning. Some of my answers have come from this message board, filled with people who have the same injury I have. Of the hundreds of posts, this one's fairly typical:

"I am eight months post ankle break with 7 screws and a plate. I spent six weeks in three different casts and another two months in that awful boot. Have tried to maintain a sense of humor and optimism, but a broken ankle is a miserable experience. After reading all the posts, it reinforces my theory that doctors do not prepare us for what we will be facing. Six weeks with no weight on the ankle and after that you can put weight on it begin PT," the doctor said. What she did NOT say was that when the cast came off, my foot would be totally immobilized and that it would be still another two months before I could begin a semblance of walking alone. The PT people were GREAT and were the ones who really gave encouragement and advice that helped me survive the ordeal."

I feel paralyzed today -- not just physically, but emotionally as well. When I was in the ambulance on my way to the hospital, dizzy with pain, I remember thinking that I'd have to re-arrange my work schedule for a few days, thanks to this damn injury that -- I figured then -- was probably just a bad sprain and I was just being a big fat baby. In the course of the following days, I learned that my ankle was actually broken, that I'd need surgery and hospitalization, and that my recuperation would be longer than a few days or weeks. It would likely take months -- months and months. Many months.

I heard those words, but I wouldn't own them. They didn't apply to me. I'm a doer, a mover, a list-maker, for goodness sake. I'm a project manager! I make things happen; I get things done. And this injury was simply unacceptable. I'd walk in a few weeks and get back to work even sooner than that. End of story.

Then I heeded the surgeon's orders and, after returning home from the hospital, I went to bed. Foot up, spirits down.

Within a few days, I'd seen all the episodes of What Not to Wear I could handle and I begged to start working again. I'm lucky to be a project manager for Microsoft projects that can quite effectively be done remotely.

Or so I thought.

It'd be inappropriate to get into details here, but suffice it to say that even though my mind and hands are perfectly healthy and capable of working, I can't physically get to my office, as it's on the second floor of an office building with only steep stairs and no elevator, and until I can physically sit at my desk every day, I won't be considered to be back at work. The new projects that I was planning to kick off the morning after my accident have been reassigned, and I am neither able to work full-time nor do I have access to any short-term disability or state assistance programs. I'm stuck -- which means my family is stuck.

I've been accused of being a "hopeless optimist," but today I don't feel especially positive or hopeful about all this. Tomorrow things will be better, I'm sure. This is just a downward blip. I'll be fine.