A Whole New Level Of Depression

I didn't sleep one wink Sunday night. I checked the clock every hour and kept saying, Well, 5 hours of sleep will be enough, then Well, 2 hours of sleep will be enough and I kept pushing the alarm further and further back until I just gave up and got up.

So Monday morning I got McLoserstene and Mike, her friend from Sydney, and we drove to the doctor for my 10:45 am appointment.

Only the appointment was for 1:45 pm because someone can't remember to look in her date book that she carries in her purse so she'll never forget stuff only she never uses it because isn't it better to just guess where you're going to be on what day and at what time?

As we're sitting in the waiting room deciding to stay the 3 hours, it occurs to me the valet parking will be about 400 dollars so we leave and go to Starbucks. Coffee doesn't help and I'm melting into my chair. I realize everyone is looking at my yellow cast. Mike had written I Heart Cock on it. Mike is not gay. Well, maybe just a little. And I had written a very tasteful message on it as well: Get This Motherfucker Off Me, Dr. Bob. Suzy Soro + Australians = Not very subtle.

I was so looking forward to this day. I just wanted my freedom back. So now is a good time to mention I never thought I'd miss the cast.

My foot looks so grotesque and bloody and my calf is half the size of the other one.

I had taken pics of my feet before the surgery because I have pretty feet and wanted to remember them as they were. I've won CONTESTS with my feet. OK, I didn't but I could have.

Yes the calf will re-build and the scars will fade but I'm so full of scars already that it really upset me. My stress levels are so off the charts that I walk around with my shoulders up to my ears which has pinched a nerve and made my fingertips permanently numb. I can't write very well; it's just a scrawl at this point. I'm sure it will eventually go away but it's a constant reminder of what a wreck I am. Three months alone in this apartment has taken its toll on my sanity. I'm depressed, which two people who've gone through the same thing and some bloggers have told me they went through as well. I want to do my laundry. (not really) I want to take a shower. (really)

The Dr. told me I can put 10% of my weight on the bad foot when I walk with crutches. Remember when it was 20%? He said I was healing well but that 10% just set me back in my already-full-of-shot-nerves head. He said I could get a pedicure. Yeah, well first I have to drive there and unwrap and rewrap. That will add hours to the pedicure.

Dr. Bob's technician showed me how to walk properly but I couldn't do it. Every time I tried, the bad foot automatically went into the air, like it's been doing for 3 months. The technician had to HOLD my foot down while I leaned on crutches with my forearms and hands and leaped like a bunny on the good foot. Place bad foot. Move crutches forward. Jump on good foot to line up with bad foot. Most people think you can use crutches to lean on but it's your arms that move you forward. If you end up with sore armpits, your crutches aren't custom-fitted and you're doing it wrong.

A guy in my building had given me his black boot and saved me the $125 the Doctor was going to charge me for a new one so that was a huge relief. They started preparing my foot by wrapping it in an ace bandage, being sure to tighten the crap out of it. The technician told me to pay attention. Due to having no sleep I couldn't remember who he was much less what he was saying. Then came the black boot. I thought it was something you could take off before bed, or when you were sitting watching a movie. But it's not. It's another full month of claustrophobic incarceration. I'm just glad I didn't know this before I had the surgery.

Again, if I didn't live alone on the second floor, this wouldn't be such a huge issue. It now only takes one person to get me down the stairs but it still takes two people to get me back up. I learned by falling over a chair that I can't be on crutches and talk on the phone. So the fear of what could happen has immobilized me because the only person here to pick me up is me.

I do not look like this except for the boot part. Bitch.

I came home and tried to sleep. The boot goes all the way to my knee and is lined with a Siberian Husky. Because it's so big it creates a pup tent under the covers. And if I turn my leg on the side the foot starts to throb and ache and pain shoots through it. The scar over the area where they scraped off the bone spur is extremely sore. I got up and attempted to remove the boot but couldn't because I don't have a degree in engineering. By the time I figured it out I decided that could destroy the surgery so I leave the Eiffel Tower on my foot. I figure it's just better to try and get used to it. If the pain continues I'll have to get more pain pills. Suddenly Steven Tyler's rehab makes a lot more sense to me. I thought he was exaggerating because I had a foot operated on and I had no pain. As the saying goes, Never judge until you've walked a mile in someone else's high heels.

I lay in bed and channel surfed but had no attention span. I finally fell upon on a rerun of Bonanza and started to watch it. I noticed that Hoss really was such a kind person only he never got the girl because the chicks preferred Little Joe. Finally I realized GOOD GRIEF I'M WATCHING BONANZA and got up to read emails.

I didn't go back to sleep until after midnight-thirty after I tried everything. Benadryl, Advil, sleeping pills. NOTHING. I slept about 7 hours, finally. But I feel like crap and I'm depressed. Thanks for all the emails, the ecards and the phone calls. I wish I had the energy to return them but don't.

End of chat.