A Cast at 65?

I’m somewhat in disbelief that I’m sporting a short hard cast on my leg. No accident, just a congenital problem with an Achilles tendon being too short. Most of my life, I’ve been fairly athletic playing most sports through high school and later on playing football. I used to have a thirty-six-inch vertical jump, so any suspicion that I had a short tendon in the back of my leg never crossed my mind. Now, I’m beginning to think that throughout most of my life, the activities always kept it stretched enough that nothing developed requiring any medical attention. No pain, cramps, or ill affects ever noticed. There was one time that Jen had a reading and coming through was a message to me to be careful of my right foot and see a doctor. Well, although in the back of my mind, why on earth would I ever go see the doctor about something that was giving me zero grief? You wouldn’t, but then in 2017 I had a knee replacement on the left leg. In that procedure, they corrected my legs bow, straightening the leg position to be more nominal. My theory is that in doing so and not quite being exact on the knee replacement part, that this created an imbalance in stance, gate, etc. Add a couple back surgeries that made me walk slightly in a compromising position for posture and stance and voila, nine years later, surgery to fuse bone into the joint below the ankle and then spend the next six weeks in a cast, followed by another six weeks in a walking boot, then countless hours building muscle back up and learning how the new foot articulation will work.

I’m two and half weeks into the cast phase, the first two weeks with a surgery room supplied soft cast with instructions that the foot can’t rest on the ground and that other than potty breaks, I had to stay in bed with the foot elevated. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it being trapped in bed for that long, but after few days I developed a routine of shows to watch, time to read, time to write, and sleep. The pain killers certainly helped me catch up on my sleep. After the first few days I also allowed myself to use the scooter and get myself ready at night for bed and in the morning, I ventured to the kitchen for coffee. Thank goodness for the bag hanging on the front as it allowed for transporting my coffee back to bed. Thinking back, the two weeks flew by fairly fast or my mind adapted enough to allow me to forget most of it and how much of a pain in the ass it was for me and probably more for Jen. Then the day came to get in the car and go to the clinic. First order of business, the nurse cut off the soft cast. My first glimpse of the surgical incisions. Four points to be exact, heel, arch, outside edge, and shin just below the knee. Stitches all got removed and I got about 25 minutes of free time without anything on my leg. And then, I don’t know why I was surprised, but I got a hard cast of fiberglass. The only benefit I see in this is the ability to personalize color for yourself, which I chose navy blue and a black stocking exposed at the top and bottom. At least it doesn’t feel like a boat anchor like the plaster casts do. Nonetheless, still a pain in the ass for another four weeks.

The reason I question some of the sixty-five is due to balance and simple mobility. When I was younger, crutches would have been my means of getting around. I was able to stand upright with one leg as if it was nothing. At sixty-five, I feel I’m always in a precarious situation with balance, and when I try to stand, well all I can say is thank God for all of the things I made sure I have to grab onto. I probably look like there is some imaginary hoist lifting me slowly as I stand and I mean slowly. Then there is the quick unstable transfer to the mobility scooter to go on an adventure to the bathroom where my next moment of instability is about to occur. I borrowed my mom’s beside commode and straddled it over the normal toilet. Never mind the visual, I’m just trying to illustrate there is nothing normal occurring at any instant in time of my day or night. Which is the other thing, I don’t know of any sixty-five-year-old that doesn’t have to wake in the middle of the night for a moment of relief before falling off to slumber the rest of the night. I was warned not to try to navigate on the scooter but instead use a walker and handheld urinal and hope in my slumbering confusional state of mind, to make sure I stand on one foot, hold the urinal tightly while using elbow and offhand to urinate. All this and trying to make sure my underwear doesn’t drop so low as to trip me and be able to grab and pull back up while on that one leg. It gives my great appreciation for those that have loss a lower limb and have adapted to an astonishingly normal-like ability to do everything life throws at them. I’m spoiled and am in my third week of sulking.

I keep telling myself that I only have three and half weeks to go to a new lease on life. A lease includes a walking boot cast that can be removed at night to sleep. I’ll figure out the mid-night awakening thing since I’m not supposed to stand on a bare foot. Maybe will still have to practice my one-legged balancing act, which I hope to have perfected by then. Then another six weeks, which Jen has already warned me that no more breakfast and lunch being supplied to me, I have to get off my own butt and make my own meals with exception to suppers. I’m still not convinced this is going to have been worth it, but if I come out the backend without pain, it will have been worth it to allow me to be pain-free for my remaining time on this earth which in my mind has to be at least another forty years, hopefully cast-free forever to make up for this stupid decision. I could have just paid someone to do what I do. No, I ain’t got enough money to do that, this better be worth it!