I don’t know what I was expecting. I just know it wasn’t this.

I was quite excited when I got up this morning. Today is the day of the final cast removal. We’ve gone through two weeks of ankle elevated above the level of the heart, two weeks in a cast with no weight bearing, a week of minimal weight bearing, and a week of increasing the weight bearing while wearing a cast and walking shoe. Six weeks of either incapacitation or very limited mobility coming to an end. Huzzah!

The cast is die

I had already worked out in my mind that I was going to do the William Wallace thing and yell “Freedom!” at the top of my lungs as we left the doctor’s office.

In all of our conversations about follow up and rehab the word “boot” was never mentioned. Until today.

I don’t know why it brought me up short. Surely I did not expect to leave the doctor’s office and sprint to the car — in reality, sprinting has been in fairly short supply since well before the injury — but I had geared myself up for the six week period. And nothing more.

The boot is huge, even larger than the cast. The good news is I can take it off at night, and she wants me to begin walking a little without it while I’m at home (not sure what her thing is with peeing. Her example of when to walk without it was at night when I need to go to the bathroom). The bad news is she wants me to wear it for six MORE weeks.

I’ll get over it, but there is no joy in Mudville tonight.

Six more %*&$ing weeks…

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