Uncaged

I have so much to be happy about, a new life is dawning. Yet, my outcome and destination still uncertain; it doesn't diminish what lies ahead. But, truthfully, I'm worn out.  It's been a long time and the journey ahead seems overwhelming--relearning how to walk, not falling, feeling stable while standing.  At my last follow up with Dr. B, and afraid to be left alone once I go through the last surgical procedure to remove the supportive cage around my ankle, I plead with him, "You won't leave me after you uncage me, will you? I feel there is still a lot ahead; I admit, I'm scared and insecure with it all."  "No, way!" he says, convincingly.  "I want to get you up and mobile.  We will celebrate with a drink at the tavern--we'll walk up together ( referring to my husband's restaurant he runs)." My husband listening intently to our conversation says, "That's why I love you, man!  Your positive attitude is great."  My anxiousness building, I can't wait to be rid of the metal contraption around my ankle: Wednesday, March 9th, the date etched in my mind.

Confinement to one position is not pleasant or comfortable, always repositioning to find that one place where you can settle into, invite sleep for the night.  Freedom of movement is not possible when rods pierce through bone, connect to screws and fasten to bolts to ensure complete immobility. The device resembles rings and horseshoes; a game I never played nor interested in.  Yet, I have been a willing participant to fixating this medieval like torture device around both ankles, with the understanding that this procedure will reconstruct and repair my foundation.  But, I've reached my threshold for discomfort. My constitution tapped from the constant pulling and tearing of  flesh, where scabs have formed around the rods that affix themselves like barnacles on a boat.


Perhaps, my impatience is getting the best of me.  I've been known to possess very little at times.  The significance of freedom weighs heavily on my mind--freedom from devices; freedom from my wheelchair.  I can't live with the torment of being confined any longer; unable to move my feet and my legs for months, has taken its toll on me physically and mentally. The agonizing pain from the device that has secured my ankle in place keeps me captive.  I desperately want out: to move all my limbs like a synchronized swimmer; to feel uncaged like a bird taking flight. My physician agrees; it's time to take the last external fixator off; to set me free; liberate my body from the foreign objects that have caused me to tremble day and night, fighting off what doesn't belong inside me.

Dr. B examines me and says the sites "look angry," I say, "pissed".  The redness and swelling along my lower half of my legs obvious, and the slightest movement to pivot from one position to the next forces the skin to pull and stretch--an agonizing feeling.  Elevating my feet is only a temporary relief to the swelling that disfigures a once thin and narrow foot. I've felt like a spectacle in a cage; the pain kills any honor left when in public. Yet, the insecurity and uncertainty fuels my drive to capture this narrative, while repairing the psychic wounds I've endured early on.