I’m pretty sure that my first Clutzy move was at the age of 3. I fell walking. Not running. Not goofing around. You know, walking on the floor with saddle shoes on. I was three. I broke my arm. By walking. It really did set the stage for a life long journey of hurt.
The injuries have been many and varied. Cracking my head open on a tampon machine. Slamming my hand shut in a car door. Falling. Tripping. Breaking fingers, arms, needing stitches, bandages, ice, you name it.
My freshman year of college was exceptionally graceful. On my way to class, I fell down a flight of stairs and f’d up my left ankle. Badly. I remember the ER doc saying “oh, how i wish you could have just broken it, it would have healed better.” Sigh. I continued to fall and sprain and re-sprain the very tired left ankle. The ground and I are just not friends. At all. I’ve walked off a curb in front of my new house and sprained my ankle. I’ve been walking down 5th Street in Austin when the street jumped up and tackled me. Not really, but I like that version better.
In 2015, I had a sinus infection. I was awake all night, hopped up on decongestants and steroids. I was cleaning the house when I stepped on a dog bone and subsequently tore the ligament of my right ankle.
In October of 2016, I had a Modified Brostrom surgery to repair the right ankle. It sucked. Sucked bigly. The injury sucked. The recovery sucked, but I did it. I went through it. PS- I was pretty old school with my ice back then 🙂
In March of 2019, I fell. I retore the ligament on my right ankle. I knew within 5 minutes that I had trashed my ankle. You just know these things when you are a professional clutz. I called my parents and said “Well, this is bad.” It was suggested that I was being dramatic and to go home and ice it. I knew. I knew.
In May of 2019, I had an Open Brostrom repair on the right ankle. (We got a lot more high tech this time around- ice machine, compression socks, the whole shebang.)
Ya, I kinda called that one. Maybe an “i told you so” would be appropriate here.
Flash forward to July. I busted my ass to get through rehab on the right ankle. I did all of the work in PT and then continued to do the work at home. I wanted to be strong and be done with all of the things. I wanted to get back to Pilates. I wanted to get healthy, get strong and MOVE.
On July 6th, as I was going down some 150 stairs at the Hotel, I took a video of my ankle. I was going to send it to my surgeon to say “LOOK HOW INCREDIBLE THIS LOOKS.”
Well, I sent the video and I didn’t get a response. To quote Michelle Tanner, “how rude.”
Another few weeks later, I go into what I thought was going to be my final post-op visit with my surgical team. I walk in all confident. Akin to Beyonce and her drumline. I was feeling GOOD. I was a little surprised to see how many of the doctor’s team was in the room for a simple post-op clearance appointment. Remember that video I sent? Ya.
Turns out my right ankle was indeed strong. My left? Not so much.
Which brings me to right now.
In 24 hours, I will be heading to my third ankle surgery. This time to repair the left that I beat to hell over the course of my 42 years. Multiple trips, falls, and sprains were nothing compared to forcing a weak ankle to be the primary for multiple years while the right was in the boot. I literally wore myself out. So tomorrow, I have to do this crap all over again. I’m ready. I have Goldfish crackers, I have my scooter, the boot, the brace, the ice machine and the shower chair. Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost my dignity, but ya, I’ll be good to go in 6-8 weeks.
I hope.
By January, I will be oh, so bionic.
