They didn't tell me how to redress the wound should I need to. Hey, is two weeks okay between checking in on a fresh suture? Sounds a little long to me, but I didn't go to med school.
They didn't tell me if there were any exercises I could do to get the ball rolling on healing, or a time frame on when something like that could be implemented. Okay, that's cool, I'll just sit on my bum until told otherwise. It was probably a bad idea for the first few weeks, but I would've liked to have known.
What they did tell me was, "If you put weight on it right now, it'll just...come apart," and as he said the last two words, he made a hand gesture that got my attention something fierce.
Actually, it scared the shit out of me. His hands were together, with interlocked fingers, and then he opened them up, like so:
Uh, come again? My eyes were wide and his instructions had had their desired effect. There was never going to be any weight put on my left leg ever. Well, obviously not forever, but goddamn. Just the thought of one stumble sending careening toward the ground and then landing on my left leg could produce, besides agonized screams from this writer, some kind of gnarled weapon last seen in an Australian post-apocalyptic movie, made of bone and topped with a ferocious and haphazard looking set of screws.
That's pretty much all they told me when we left: careful, or your leg could physically break apart.
Heavy duty, man, heavy fucking duty.
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