Burn the Chair

I couldn't tell you what number of follow up "check ups" I've had with my surgeon since the first surgery.  Or, for that matter, every other specialist over the past few years.  Although, my foot surgeon has made each visit positive and promising.  No, it's not the typical office visit; I feel included in my care, what I say matters to him, and he truly listens to my complaints, which on some days seem to clog the conversation between us.  Bless him for his patience. 

In general, visits to doctors rob me of my time doing something I enjoy.  Maybe I should be counting the number of check ups--saving them like pennies in a jar, wondering how much I'll get when I cash them in.  But counting would only prolong the misery of being locked in a trap. I can only imagine what poor suffering creatures go through when they mistakenly stumble upon traps.  There's not a surgeon in the woods to free them.

"Three weeks and we will remove the ex-fix!" Dr. Bernard determines with certainty.  "Your foot looks great, there isn't as much swelling as the first," he says.  I've heard these words before--how great it looks.  What does this mean exactly? So, I begin to explore the questions that free me from my wheelchair and other apparatuses I have accumulated along the way.  "Will I be able to drive once this is removed?" I tentatively ask.  "If I remove it on a Wednesday, you should be able to drive to work on Monday!" he says enthusiastically. He's out of his mind, I think to myself.  I gently remind him that I have not walked efficiently for three years prior to surgery, that the AFOs I jammed my feet into to keep me from tripping didn't work all the time andalso played a role in screwing up my gait.  And, I would be remiss not to mention the pain, once the ex fix is removed it is as intolerable on as it is off. Rods that have played house in my ankles, heel and shin leave their scars and holes in my bones--this takes time to heal.

"I want you out of the wheelchair," he exclaims.  "Yes, but how am I suppose to get out of my car, and grab my wheelchair?" I ask.  "I want you to burn it," he says.  Okay this is not exactly a productive conversation for me, although I appreciate his optimism.  Next, he points to his own head and says to me, "a lot of this is in your head, insist you can do this." At this point, I think I want more than just one pain pill.  My creative visualization is waning.  It has taken four weeks just to stand on the left foot.  I've practiced with the walker but at the moment the thought of having a chair burning is appealing.  Maybe this can help me grapple with  the "what's next" once I'm freed from my traps.  At the moment, I agree with him, I'm trapped in my mind, my memories of the many hard falls still fresh.