Three surgeries and you’re not even two. The next one is an osteotomy. The way I understand it is that Dr. C is going to drive a pin into both your taluses, separate them, cast your feet back up, let things heal for November, and then we’ll take you back and he’ll remove the pins. In addition to that, they’re lengthening the Achilles’ tendon on your right leg because it’s grown more stubborn than the left. Last time they just did that to your left; 50/50 hindsight, I kinda wish they’d done both at the same time. But the last two were in-and-out. We wheeled you in the crib after checking ourselves out. This time, due to how invasive this third one will be, we're going to be staying at the hospital overnight.
Dr. C asked me to see how long I could balance just standing on my heels. Not very long. He said that’s what you’re going through right now pretty much all the time; you’re curving them in and standing on the sides of your feet just to awkwardly maintain your balance. Awkward and probably a little painful too the way you charge across the asphalt of parking lots and shuffle about on the cement of sidewalks.
You take my fingers and you pull me behind you as we traipse into our new backyard. Two of my fingers keep you vertical, especially going up and down slopes and hills. But eventually you let go and you’re cruising on your own, your hands hanging down at your side because you’re already accustom to getting from one place to another without having to have your hands and arms outstretched. You don’t fall very much anymore. But I know where you’re going; you’re trucking on down to the backyard’s rock “spillway” to return to the never-ending task of throwing small rocks at big rocks. I sit behind you. You have no idea what’s going to happen at the end of the month. Would it be easier on anyone if you did? No. Not according to some of the stories I’ve been reading.
November. It’s not a month anymore. It’s a gauntlet to run, another wall to scale.
No comments:
Post a Comment