It's been 55 days since a wrong move on the tile floor of my bathroom busted my left ankle into a jigsaw puzzle and 53 days since a surgeon whose last name I can't pronounce put it back together. It must have been tough because there were no edge pieces to start with.
I'm still hobbling about my home, still not going anywhere except (a) my bedroom, (b) that bathroom, (c) my office and (d) the hallways that connect those rooms. Each day, pain and clumsiness decline ever so slightly. Each day, I manage to feel a little closer to the day when I'll be back to my old mobility.
When might that day be? One thing I've learned these past 55 days is that the absolutely-true answer to that kind of question is "I don't know." But it's out there…somewhere.
Has any good come of it? Some nice visits from friends and I've lost…well, the scale says about eighteen pounds since before the fracture. But it's probably more than that because I don't know the precise weight of all the metal added to my lower left limb. It's a decent weight loss, all the more impressive when you consider how much less active I am than my norm.
I'd like to thank all of you who sent well wishes, especially the 90% of you who heeded my wish to not hear about that time you broke something like an ankle or your utterly non-professional, you-never-went-to-med-school medical advice. I truly believe that not having to wade through all that has contributed to my recovery.