A blog to keep me busy

As I've been couch-bound with my now cast-laden ankle for over a month the stagnant nature that is non-weight bearing life has taken its toll. I'm going a bit stir-crazy, so I've decided to start a blog about my flimsy ankle and how I managed to teach it a lesson. Also known as "How my ankle sought revenge and won."

Shall we start with the story of how I broke my ankle?
Labor Day weekend was the best weekend of my life. My wonderful boyfriend of a bit over a year proposed to be on a Saturday during our weekend trip to Massachusetts to see his family. The ring was perfect, the location was perfect, and he is the most amazing man I have ever known. We had already planned to go skydiving the next day, as it was a very belated Christmas gift I had given him last year. We woke up before the sun and headed to the airfield where we watched the instructional video and signed our lives away. We even had to agree that if we suffered injury or death due to "willful negligence" we couldn't sue. Basically, if we were too annoying and they just chucked us out of the plane without a parachute it was our fault. Needless to say, I was nervous. I had been skydiving once before and landed just fine, so I felt that time two was pressing my luck. After all, they call it a "once in a lifetime experience" for a reason.

 We practice the jump. We did not practice breaking our ankles, 

but I did a very good job without instruction.

One of these parachutes is me.

Everything was fine until a split second before I broke my ankle. When landing a tandem skydive (an instructor is attached to your back) a common way to land is to lift your legs up 90 degrees and slide on your rear. I lifted my legs. We slid. My left foot got caught underneath my instructors ankle and twisted to the left, at which point I felt a moderate POP. I knew something was terribly wrong and it hurt, but I tried to brush it off.
"I think I hurt my ankle," I said.
"Can you walk?" asked the instructor.
"Sure, just give me a minute," I lied.

I sit for a few minutes because I'm pretty sure my ankle is just twisted. I was wrong.

My new fiance's entire family was there watching and taking pictures, I might add. As I sat on the ground hoping my ankle was just sprained they thought I was enjoying the scenery. Until my instructor lifted my shin bone and watched my foot just sit on the ground, completely detached from my leg. Then he hailed the paramedics (who were already on scene to help the jumper before me who broke her wrist) and it all went downhill from there. 

I was perfectly calm (most likely because I was in shock). I told them my pain was a 6 1/2 out of 10. Undervaluing my pain level will be a common theme in this blog. I tried to get them to just "pop it back in" since I thought it was just dislocated. I mean, that's what Indiana Jones would do, right? Just put a piece of leather between my teeth and I'll bite down while you put the ankle back in the socket! Nobody listened.

Someone kept lifting my leg to watch the foot stay on the ground. This was unpleasant. Paramedics wanted to cut off my jeans, but as any ladies out there know, a good pair of jeans are hard to find. I adamantly refused to let them ruin my denim. They moved my leg into a big boot, put a neck brace on me despite my objections, and I got a nice ride in an ambulance which could really use new shocks.

The half-naked man enjoyed watching my ankle not move. Where is his shirt?

In the hospital nurses tried to tell me how serious the injury was. I encouraged them to just "pop it back in." They looked at me in total horror. I refused pain medication since I didn't want to vomit. I could never be a good drug addict since all the heavy stuff makes me violently ill. I said the pain was a 7 out of 10 (with no pain meds!). After an x-ray and several nurses telling me I'd need surgery ("Nah," I'd reply, "It'll be fine. I have to go to NY to tell my parents we're engaged!") I was sent home to Connecticut in a splint and told to see my doctor. Then I nearly passed out. Still no pain meds, and they again refused to just pop it back in.

The good news: they gave me an ice pop. The bad news: it was grape.