Caviglia*, Day 16, Day 17

ankle, going home, home

Before I describe the scene above, let’s all say “Hallelujah” because Sophie is home from the hospital.

Hallelujah.

Her lungs are healed.

Somewhere in the midnight hours when she was transferred from the ICU (Day 8) to a step-down room, Sophie’s ankle was broken. I noticed that her ankle and foot were swollen and bruised on Monday, but the tiny little mother mind™ inquiries were brushed off. On Tuesday night, The Hospitalist (My god, I hate this word so much and not so much the person or persons that have to carry the moniker, but this dumb made-up name that connotes corporate healthcare) informed The Nurse who informed the tiny little mother mind™ that they would check it in the morning to see whether it was a blood-clot, and the mind thought oh boy, will we ever get out of this place alive yet the next day (Tuesday now, more than 24 hours after the tiny little mother mind™ had noticed when she placed her hand on the foot and Sophie (who had not had a really big tonic-clonic seizure in over nine months) had a big seizure in response which was, of course, pain) after a sonogram, it was determined that there was no blood-clot but the tiny little mother mind™ and Sophie’s father whose mind I will not talk about here insisted on the genius idea of an X-ray. No one told either of us anything until Wednesday afternoon when I called The Hospitalist about some other stuff and innocently asked about the foot and learned that there are several fractures in her foot. I screamed in my mind but spoke in raised tones to The Hospitalist who was sending over an orthopedic surgeon to follow up. I continued screaming in my mind for the next six hours when, finally, an orthopedist came into the room and kneeled on the bed and splinted Sophie’s ankle (see photo above). I stood by the bed in my Valentine’s Day red tights. Oliver helped hold the foot up. I’d laugh, we’ve all laughed because you absolutely can not make this shit up. The screaming in my mind had become a roar an open mouth, a pouring, spitting invective, despairing language and bitter bitter cynicism over — what? — what would you say after over?

We are home navigating a Sophie who can not put any weight on her leg for at least one week after which she will hopefully get a cast and a boot. A guy brought a Hoyer lift today that we are learning to use in her tiny bedroom. As these things go, Sophie’s stomach is reacting to the outrageous 14-day antibiotics and as I’m not a person particularly fond of scatology and my good girlness strives for the discreet, the hammock thingy that lies under her and must be hooked to the lift got very, very soiled, necessitating a job that was similar to something I imagine a road crew might do at the Indy 500 but goddamn we did it, my sister and I, and the hoyer thingy is now twirling about in the washing machine soon ready for its virgin use with our girl tomorrow. It rained all day and we stayed inside and I swear I saw Sophie smile a few times and my sister made us dinner. We had mashed potatoes, steak bites and salad. I’m writing sub notes for my students and thinking about tomorrow when nursing should begin again and our lives will be that much better. Because, you know, the old truly scatological phrase: God never gives you more than you can handle.**

going home with a broken ankle after surviving pneumonia and a 2-week hospital stay

* Caviglia: knee, Italian

** Never mind us. With every experience, every word typed, I am aware of my good fortune. Of Sophie’s good fortune. God apparently gives more than one can handle to the people in Gaza (goddamn those who are bombing them to obliteration). Please stop. Cease fire.