The real trouble with painkillers is that one can only take them every 4 hours. This unfortunate reality has me up from 2:30am-3:30am playing Scramble2 on my iPhone as a distraction technique until I can safely swallow my next dose of Vicodin. My average score has improved nicely as a result, and I am the apparent winner of multiple trophies awaiting me somewhere in cybergame space. I woke David up early with the ringing of my foot pump alarm. I had to free myself from their velcro clutches quickly in order to crutch my way to the bathroom to alleviate myself, but could not bend down to reach the OFF switch, which of course trips the alarm and alerts loved ones who can then hop to attention and help avoid the possible onset of gangrene in the patient by reattaching the booties. I accidentally placed a crutch onto the toes of my good foot while trying to make it to the bathroom, eliciting an expletive I had forgotten I even knew.
After a restorative cup of tea and slice of wheat toast with pb and raspberry j, courtesy of Nurse David/Juan, I watched the end of Stage 7 of the Tour de France and the sprint finish by Mark Cavendish was fabulous. Then it was time for my first PT appointment of the day and so garbed in my work out shorts and top, we headed for the hospital. After Allison, my PT for the next 2 days, finished a hellish quad strenghthening series of exercises on me, I made for the stationary bicycle for a 30 minute workout. In order to bike with my one good leg, I had to prop my injured leg in its brace up onto an enormous resista-ball that was wedged between my bike and the one next to it. This was hardly an elegant manoeuver. In fact, to any bystander it would have resembled the beginning of a solo sumo wrestling match sans diaper, as I settled my left butt cheek onto the saddle and then attempted to lever my braced leg with some body momentum onto the resista-ball in a wide swinging motion. My third attempt proved successful and iPhone music blaring in my ears, I began pedaling with my left leg as best I could in a strained effort to make the pedal work its way entirely around. This is easier said than done and so with some trial and error, I realized the way to make the full circle is to separate the movement into 3 distinct parts: 1) the downswing; 2) the raised calf rotation backward push; and 3) the thigh clenching flexed foot upward pull. Steps 2 and 3 are best when accompanied by a Monica Seles-esque grunt. While this may not be fluid or particularly pretty to watch, it is rather effective with only the occasional misstep, resulting in the need to brace oneself securely to avoid an unintentional face plant. 30 minutes of jerky one legged biking later and I felt refreshed. The thin veil of perspiration I wore was hard earned and I longed for a Gatorade. Yes, I thought triumphantly, even semi-crippled I can train with the best of them.
I enjoyed a celebratory lunch out at the Italian restaurant annexed to our hotel and when we reached the room fell into a deep afternoon nap. As a reward, I removed my compression hose and opted out of wearing the foot pumps for the remainder of the afternoon. This small act of defiance would cost me dearly for shortly after 8pm, I noticed that the toe next to my pinkie toe on my left foot was turning a distinctly purple color. I tried massaging my toe to encourage circulation but the pressure was painful and I feared the worst, gangrene that might result in the amputation of the toe if not taken care of stat. I called for Nurse David who whipped the toe pumps onto my feet in record time. By morning I felt ready to look at my gangrenous toe once again, and though it seemed much less purple than the night before, the tip did look quite a bruised color still. (see poorly lit photo attached)
After catching up on Stage 8 of the Tour and the three crashes that would mark the end of Lance's chances to win the race, we headed for the hospital. Allison asked how I was doing and I told her of my purple toe, as well as my suspicions about the potential amputation. Allison asked to examine the offending digit, and after a brief but painful manipulation of the toe, announced that it was not gangrene but that I had in fact broken my toe. This was both a relief and a complete mystery for how could I have broken my toe when I cannot even walk on it? Allison asked whether I had perhaps stubbed my toe in the dark at night. And then it all came flooding back to me like a bad dream, the need to pee, my desperate removal of the toe pumps, the alarm sounding and yes, yes dear god my crutching over my toe en route to the bathroom. Mystery solved, I would not lose a toe but could add a broken one to my injury list. Although my planned toe nail polish change would need to be delayed another week, the silver lining here is that the cure for a broken toe is simply rest of which I am getting plenty.
I also decided to switch from Vicodin to Percoset in an effort to improve the quality of my sleep. Please stay tuned for more on that important topic in future posts.
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