Olympic Observations

Uhh...this isn't about how NBC is jamming down our gullets Americana and the mass media personification of full volume shouts of 'MERKA!

Tonight on the main channel we've been getting the back and forth between the girls in gymnastics and the guys and girls in the pool swimming. These two body types are similar in that 1) everyone involved looks like each other; and 2) they're freaky as hell looking.

Is that just me?

The swimmers all look like aliens in their suits, all tight and pushing their muscles around to weird spots. I've seen that episode of The X-Files--it was scary then and it's scary now. What they're able to do in the water? Amazing...how they're arms and chests are elongated? Is it just me?

Now the gymnast girls. What those girls do, on the bars, on the vault and the balance beam, and the floor stunts and dances...all of that is just about the most amazing skill set for strength and balance. Watching it, I try to imagine myself simply walking across the balance beam, without a broken leg, and I nod to myself in the belief that, yeah, I could probably walk that shit. Backflip with no hands?

Those girls, though, remind me of chiseled ten-year-old boxers, little boys ready to throw down and beat up the fat bullies that patrol recess.

Very weird looking sets of people.

100th Post

Welcome to 100th post on The Observatory. This site started as a means for me to write up the little thoughts that I'd originally planned on skipping when I decided to write only long-form literary style blog posts back in January on my original site, Caliboyinbrooklyn.

That lasted pretty much the full month of January before I switched back to regular posts on the ...inBrooklyn site, and now both have similar things covered.

After realizing that I wanted something more serious for this site, the Observatory, I decided to put all the Central American posts up here, and then did the same with the broken leg material. Long series will likely all be over here. We'll see.

Thanks for keeping up with this site, if you do...you've been rewarded with weird stuff, like my obsession with my beard or covering the old-school plastic style DVD cases, or some other inane thing that crosses my brain.

I originally called the site "The Observatory of the Subconscious", but dropped that prepositional phrase because it sounded too pretentious. If anyone has even noticed, I have an all capital-letter acronym on the side of this column. I call it my own version of other, more famous (mostly religious) acronyms.

Mine, WDWG?, is a question, and I'll define it later. I'll field guesses if any of my few readers would like to guess.

Thanks again.

On the Cliche to Recovery

This should be my last entry before I start asking everyone to keep an eye out for a tiny self-published collection of broken-leg notes I plan on working up to raise money for the bill.

I'm not even sure how I want to go about this. I still can't put any weight on the knee, but many other things have changed, and for the better. The cat isn't afraid of me anymore, in fact, he gets in my way and doesn't flinch when I need to brandish my crutch at him to get him to move.

I can sleep through the night easy as pie.

At first, sleeping was one of the main things I didn't like. Well, going to sleep. I was stuck in one position in bed, sweating profusely, unable to sleep more than three hours in a row without having to hobble to the bathroom. Even while asleep the time was more like uneasy twilight, where my brain was running through different superhero scenarios, where each scenario was a sleeping position and my leg was the hero. Something like that. Anyway, it always felt like I never got any rest.

Then I started staying up real late, and that mostly fixed it. I could sleep through "the night", which consisted of 3 to 6:30ish. Now I'm good for a regular schedule.

My crutch stamina and palm-ache have been steadily increasing and decreasing, respectively. My lumberjack like beard--with a new segment of hairs encroaching on my left eye--is patiently waiting my brother's sending of my mechanical razor. The crazies are mostly abated, but I did work them in somewhere else, for sure. Made it constructive.

So, here are some pictures detailing my sad triple-fortnight on our big couch.

The first is a proud moment early on--I got pants on for the first time (before that I had been in a towel):

The next is from a few weeks later, as I was losing it. The picture was going to be used for a post, and I still think I'll write the post, but not for a few months, so I'll have time to reflect on the wackyness of the whole thing.

That is Old Spice deodorant, lit on fire...in case you couldn't tell.

The next picture I took from that day we went to the beach and I lounged under the umbrella and tried to read A Wild Sheep Chase. I felt, eh, what the hell...why not take a picture of one of the bastards that started it all.

I don't blame the ship. It was the bike...and me. That bike had a history, yet I rode it anyway.

Here's a shot of the incision with no tape of staples or anything. As I type this it looks even better than here, and sometime later I might include a picture if the scar, but since the pictures don't figure into that little self-published dealy I mentioned, it doesn't really matter.

I did finally finish A Wild Sheep Chase (courtesy of Norm). All I can say is...I love Murakami. If anyone reading this hasn't ever heard of Haruki Murakami, then surprise yourself and check out the great starter novel A Wild Sheep Chase. I also finished Calico Joe (courtesy of my mom). Normally I'm not a John Grisham reader, and I probably would have skipped this had it not been mailed to me, but it was fun and quick and was all about baseball and redemption.

So now I go about my days getting stronger, in the brain and the rest of my corporeal collection.

Stir Crazy and the Beach

As the days tick on, and my novel gets slowly worked up, I find myself getting a little stir crazy. This is evident by some of the posts I've put, like my proceeding hairline discussion. I have another post I realize was pretty damn loony, and I'm waiting for the right time to unleash it (after I'm healed and it'll make it more timed).

So, I started to think up ways to take pictures like from Rear Window. I started thinking that a closeup shot might be kinda cool, so here we go:

It took me five tries to get that shot. That stupid picture took almost a half-hour to set up, and at the time it was the most important thing I'd ever tried, a frustrating son of a bitch if ever it was a thing. Later on, I thought that if I moved outside it would look more like the film.

Setting my leg up was tough, because it was still very tight, and after a series of shots with the camera on a timer, I realized that I was just wearing my boxers, and that morning's activities were wasted.

Sweaty and now angry, I realized that another day would have to come for this attempt.

Eventually that day came, and this is the cream of the crop. It was difficult to get the leg in the frame, and this took five different tries, each time I had to get up and check the picture, and then get back into position in time for the ten second clock to fire.

So, as my writing projects developed slower than I really wanted, and my inner crazies started to envelope my alone time, Corrie kept designing different activities for us to do outside. Most were drive-to destinations we used to walk to. One was the nice trip to the beach.

Corrie drove us down to the close spot, the place I would travel on days off and ride bikes. I was having a good time, with the tape and the ocean in the same picture.

My crutches worked in the sand, even as they sank each time I staked them as I hobbled. As I laid on the sheet on the sand, I had to hold the umbrella, otherwise the wind was would take it, and I draped my shirt over my leg to keep it from getting sun damaged.

The beach trip seemed to rejuvenate me. The crazies subsided and I'm back to making some good time on my writing projects, and while at times it seemed like I'd been cooped up and immobile for years, it's still July, and I have only a few weeks left of no weight, and I need to make the best of them.

I've been venturing further and further on my own, and spending productive time at the same coffee house I was at before the incident itself. The long haul feels like it's past halfway and getting towards the end.

Pliers and Tape

How would you think a person trained in medicine would take staples out of a leg? Would you expect a little local anesthetic? Maybe assuming a sympathetic attitude is ridiculously out of the question.

Me? I didn't get either.

I finally got called back into the room with an orthopedic resident. Orthopedics is the study of the musculoskeletal system, which is exactly what I have going on.

This was for my two-week appointment. At this hospital, if you have an appointment with an orthopedic specialist, you come into the waiting room, take your "brown card" (of which they give you six after you leave the first time, so you'll always have one) and appointment paper and paper-clip them together and put them into a box.

Then you have a seat.

A nurse, apparently at some point, takes them out and goes through the information of who, what the app is for and at what time was it scheduled. Eventually they call your name. In my case I hobbled over to the nurses station and strenuously took the seat. The nurse asked me the same preliminary questions that you could imagine if you thought hard enough. Then there were a few detail specific things. Then there was the instruction to go back and sit down and wait for your name again.

The second time I heard my name both Corrie and I went looking for the room my page had directed me. Inside there was a young resident, taller than me but built similarly. He had me take the dressing off, while he looked up my case file on his little computer screen.

That remains the only time I really got any kind of eyeball on my post-op x-ray. It reminded me of Ray Charles building a dock. But that's not fair to either the brilliant Ray Charles or the guys who had to get shards of my knee to align properly.

He clicked the x-ray off pretty quick, likely because he thinks the sight of it would scare us. He obviously doesn't know us.

So, he starts looking at my knee, then opens a drawer and pulls out some sealed surgical pliers. Next is a packet of what look like tape strips. He fumbles around in his pocket for a second and eventually removes some (surgical grade) scissors. He then cuts the tape strips in half, both doubling the number of strips he has as well as making them shorter.

He opens the pliers as he asks both me and Corrie questions, mostly about tobacco use. Then he goes at it. Starting at the bottom he just starts plucking out my staples. Each one makes me flinch a little more than the last.

"No...(teeth hiss)...no smoking...(hiss)...quit a few years ago...(teeth hiss)..."

"That's good...(plink!)...nicotine use makes it...(plink!)...nearly impossible for bone to heal...(plink!)"

You saw how many staples there were, right? It went on from the bottom of my ankle to the top of my forehead.

"No tobacco, no nicotine...no chew...anything, okay?" He was done now, and I was trying to let my twitchy leg relax.

"Sure. Easy enough."

"Ganj is okay," he said with a nod as he turned to check something on the desk. Oh, so pot's okay. That makes sense. Almost made me wish I still hung out with that pretty lady.

Then he started putting on the tape. I was told they would fall off in a few days, that I shouldn't bathe for a week (to let the wound fully seal up), and even then don't soak for too long, and to keep all weight off the leg.

Yeah. On top of that one already boss. The staples were now tape. Moving on down the ladder of office supply suture elements.

Poor Dressings and Staples

As the first few days home chugged on, and as Corrie and I figured out what my first excursion outside would be, the healing process was doing it's thing. And by that I mean my leg was getting pretty itchy.

Due to the severity of the wound, I fully understand that the itchy-ness isn't from the actual healing, but rather, the surrounding skin beginning to regain feeling, and then needing a little attention. The hair was matted from sweat and whatever salve they might have used, or cleaning agent, while I was under, and damn if it couldn't be soothed.

As we discussed the differences between my plan for the first crutch trip (our favorite breakfast diner, The Pepper Corner) and Corrie's (the closer pizza parlor, Pizza Pie), I would slide my hand beneath the dressings to soothe the skin and hair. The dressings were starting to move as I tooled around the apartment, and were just loose enough to allow me to work inside. I made sure not to get that close to the region where I understood to have had surgical work done. I know that doesn't need to be disturbed by my grubby hands.

For the first trip outside, we settled on a trip to Signal Hill. It was a great idea; hobble down to the car, go for a ride up to the Hill and watch the sunset, and return home, hobbling back upstairs. Brilliant. It turned out that my stamina on the crutches was lower than I had thought, so this was the best idea.

Since I'd been home for eight days when we went out, just the sun in my face and breeze in my hair was glorious freedom.

Upon another soothing of my leg, my fingers ran across something that felt out of place: staples.

What the hell were staples doing this high? Now, I had tried to soothe a little closer to the sphere of surgical influence, but I thought this was still north of the incision. I was wrong, as this is quite the incision.

Before, I hadn't been sure what type of suture they were going to use, but on this afternoon, I knew.

Here's a bit more gruesome picture of the Frankenstein's monster look at the size of the incision. Also of note, the dressing, having fallen apart, in total disarray.

I had my two-week appointment the day after this, so Corrie wrapped up the clean remnants of gauze, the section that was wrapped around the dirty, blood clotted cotton sheet, with an ace bandage, and I was ready to go off and see a doctor.

Scare Tactics

One of the very few things the UCLA-Harbor Medical Center told me was not to put any wait on my newly finished left leg, and not for a while.

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.