You Say Whaaa?

The saga of the leg goes on.  I’m told I must have surgery on my dear little broken and misplaced fibula.  SURGERY!  We’re talking metal plates and screws.  A manly scar.  Another true grit moment.  One more notch on the old belt.

So from this day forward and into the next three months, I’ll be the one on the couch with my leg stuck up in the air, making certain my toes stay eye level, keeping my ankle higher than my poor sad little heart, demurely trying not to give an accidental crotch shot now and then with this left leg waving wildly at the ceiling.  Wheee!!!

Hang with me, though.  I’ll do my best to write through my sure-to-be chronically drug-induced brain fog.  With my trusty laptop resting on the shelf of my chest, my teeth clenched in pain, my fingers not responsible for anything they might write, this Dancing Bird will continue on.

The next few days will be busy with all the pre-op nonsense they do to people — blood tests, EKG, sincere pats on the knee, kind and good wishes from family and friends who are damned glad it isn’t them.  I’m glad it’s not them too.

Oh, did I mention I’m signed up for ballet lessons when this is over?


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