Dad
It was March of 1993 and I was standing on the tennis court at the Diplomat Hotel and Resort in Miami Beach where I was attending a professional conference. We were in the middle of a not so highly competitive doubles match, and I had just lunged forward (not unlike many similar moves I make every time I play) to return an opponent’s shot. All of a sudden I heard a pop, and I was on the ground. This being Don Johnson land and the home of Miami Vice (remember it was 13 years ago), I assumed I had been shot.
Of course, I hadn’t been shot, but I could not stand up. When my playing partner (now down to one since the match had ended prematurely and my opponents had lost interest) finally helped me up my foot was dangling and I could not put any weight on it.
The next stop was the hospital emergency room. After applying ice and sitting in the waiting room a young resident finally checked me out. No, I had not been shot; I in fact had a strained knee and was offered an awkward fitting semi cast and sent me on my way. In retrospect, it might have been better if I had been shot because at least the doctor would have been able to diagnose my injury. Not only did my knee not hurt but the half cast with an accompanying ace bandage was not providing adequate support and was extremely difficult to maneuver. In fact, as I discovered, three days later, I had a ruptured Achilles tendon (well below but close to my knee) which would require surgery. The good news, I guess, is that my knee was fine (?).
Three days later I found myself in surgery doing the proverbial count backwards from 10 to 1. I’ve often wondered why the anesthesiologist makes you count backwards. Since I only made it to 9.5 anyway, what difference would it have made if I started with 1. According to the surgeon the operation went well. It was easy for him to say, it wasn’t his leg. I spent the following 24 hours in a drug-induced stupor, of which I remember nothing, and then my wife drove me home.
For the next ten weeks I wore a thigh length cast. I continued with my painkillers for a good part of this time. Since the injury was to my left leg I was actually able to drive and I returned to work three days after the surgery. Although I thought I was fairly productive at work, in fact I was not. Months later colleagues would remind me of alleged conversations they had with me. To my credit I remembered participating in many of these conversations but had absolutely no recollections of what had been discussed.
Sleeping was fun. Waking up was not. I remember the quilt on the bed hurt my foot, so my wife devised a contraption to raise the sheet and blanket from the bed so they didn’t come into contact with my feet. It made the bed look a little like a tent. I always wanted to go camping. Now I could do this in the comfort of my own home.
I couldn’t get my cast wet, of course. As a result showers were an adventure. Initially I would sit on a chair in the shower with my bad leg dangling over the side. Over time I learned how to do this standing up, but several times ended up spread-eagled over the side of the tub. The cast remained dry, but I continued to find more ways to inflict intense pain upon myself.
As you might derive, I wasn’t the most fun to live with at this time. My wife and kids began to look for opportunities to avoid me and even the dog greeted me with looks of total contempt.
One day it was time to have the cast removed. I wasn’t ready but my doctor thought I was. He removed the cast using a saw. I thought surely he was going to amputate my leg. (He didn’t like me either.) The cast came off and then without uttering a word, the doctor walked out of the room where I languished for the next half hour. I could not stand up. I couldn’t move and I no longer had the use of my cast or my crutches. Thanks for all your help, Doc!
Ultimately, I learned to navigate with a cane and eventually I gave that up. Eventually, against everyone’s advice I began playing tennis again. No one dared to characterize this as a quick recovery. In fact I apparently established a modern record for most time in a cast for this kind of an injury. I celebrated and thanked my family by taking them by limo to see Phantom of the Opera. They deserved it. I didn’t.
Do I have advice for the reader? First, do not under any circumstances sustain this injury. If you do, have the surgery quickly and keep yourself well-medicated. Try to be good to your family even though the drugs may instruct you otherwise. They’re the only one you’ll ever have and they love you despite the fact that you’re an ogre.