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I'll probably be musing/venting about the recuperation. I don't have any idea how much people might care about the minor little bits of dealing with a broken ankle.

So, if you think there ought to be a filter, speak up. Otherwise I'll just post in the clear.

This is day three, morning two.

It fucking hurts. I don't know if that's because of the drugs wearing off in the night, my moving about before I let the drugs kick in, or what, but the just fine in the night (never got to a more than 4) becoming a royal pain (it's orbiting 7) is not my idea of a good time.

Pain... some people commented about my going to the museum Monday. Maybe it was a bit silly. I thought, briefly, when I got up from the wreck (and one of the things I've noticed about motorcycle crashes is how aware I am of just what is happening to my head in them. The scooter crash, the time I dropped the scooter on my knee, the time Marna and I slid out on the road to Gibbs, this one, I was very clear on just what my head was doing as the ground rose up to meet me. Helmets are your friend.)

Putting aside the Ebola Scale I am far too familiar, even to the point of intimacy, with the, "on a scale of 1-10 how much does it hurt?" way of measuring pain. It's actually a pretty good measure because it creates a valid baseline; by giving it a sliding scale, and making it internal to the patient.

That's the important thing. Pain is internal and the patient's perception of it is what needs to be dealt with.

I think, all in all, I tend to underrate it to about 7. Some of that may be trying to be, "brave", or just thinking it's not that bad, I don't need to medicate it (as Les says, I am not fond of medications). Between 5-6 I start to really notice it.

Seven, seven is the break point. Seven is where I start wanting drugs.

Last night I slept pretty well (apart from Bugulu deciding I am loved,and lovable, and insisting on using my neck as a mattress). I had two cats cuddled up to me (which, at the moment may even be better than a lover, because they are less likely to move and impinge on my ankle, fond as I am of having a warm body to snuggle up to), and my nighttime pain never seemed to rise to more than about 4. I've been on the couch, which lets me use the back to keep my leg up, which is good.

I did dream about the foot. I was on a shuttle flight of some sort (I say some sort because the initial start was much like an olympic bobsled run, with us shoving until it was going, and then hopping onto a ramp while the pilot transitioned to real flight. This was apparently new, as there was a news piece on it. I have odd dreams, and that sort of detail filling is normal in them).

I observed, aloud, that being on the trip meant I could recover in zero-g, to which someone replied that it was offset by not being able to get my foot above my heart.

When I actually started to move around... things were not so well. The foot started to hurt. The effect of the vicodin (not as effective as I'd like, the pain is never really gone, even when I am a woozy dope, with poor balance and severely degraded motor skills: Speaking with my mother, it seems she has no great benefit from it either).

By the time I moved to a full dose (10 mg vicodin, 1,000 tylenol) it was orbiting 7, with the spikes edging to eight, and the troughs never below 6+. I'll be talking with Ortho about different meds when I see them today.

So, that's the state of things. I may be off the net until sometime tomorrow, depending on the treatment plan we work out this afternoon.

News as it happens.


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May 2016

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