Week Two (Part 2): “It’s my (pity) party, and I'll cry if I want to!”

Days 4-5 were the turning-point when it came to the post-surgical ankle pain. The medication (a medley of Hydrocodone interspersed with alternating Acetaminophen and Ibuprofen) seemed to have downgraded my pain from a solid 8.5 down to a moderate discomfort (4.5). Not quite sure how those numbers help at all: but basically, it went from hurting like hell, to being uncomfortable as hell. The sore throat/irritation was still around, but far less pronounced than before. This eventually dissipated in another couple of days as well.

Poor misguided fool: about to embark on
some foolish endeavor...

Have 15 lbs always weighed this much?

As my pain began to subside, I had a surge of motivation, as I wanted to be the best post-ORIF patient ever- and I decided to do an upper body workout, and some yoga. Having been in decent shape prior to the injury, I was accustomed to my daily 5:00 am gym sessions, and I did not want to lose the progress that I had made over the past few months.

I did about 10 minutes of stretching, and 10 minutes of weights and calisthenics (push-ups, sit-ups, chest-press, bicep curls, triceps curls, planks, rows, etc.). Not much when you think about it- but boy oh boy, was it enough! This extremely mild 20 minute workout had me in a sweat: exhausted, and out of breath. It required a 3 hour nap just to recover.

Also around this point (as my pain began to subside), the reduction in pain made way in my mind for all the other thoughts that I had been putting off. That is when the series of breakdowns began, as my entire situation truly started to sink in.

Days 5-7, I decided to throw myself a pity party.

Having been given far too much time to think, and being extremely limited by the activities I was able to undertake: resulted in the perfect recipe for the bouts of anger and depression that wove in and out of my days.

The anger: my frustration with myself, with the accident, with the circumstances that I was placed in- and the fact that I had been in a similar position before (a few years ago).

The depression: the hopelessness, the feeling of complete dependence, the inability to sleep through the night, or even fetch myself a glass of orange juice.

The anger: the classic ‘Why Me!?’ cries, the fact that I couldn’t seem to catch a break.

The depression: the loneliness and isolation, the inability to connect with people outside my shell of self-pity

Underneath that pile of blankets and that cat is
heaping mess of a broken soul... oh and a couch.

All this was enveloped in a heaping serving of tears.

Tears of frustration, tears of hopelessness, tears of resentment, tears of sleeplessness, tears of anger, tears of pain, tears of loneliness, tears of exhaustion, and some more tears sprinkled about- for good measure. These two pitiful tear-filled days were not my proudest. They made me feel weak and frail. They made me feel whiny and stupid. They made me feel negative and pessimistic. They made me feel like the opposite of the person who I thought I was...all of which made me want to cry some more. It wasn’t pretty.

On day 7, I found a comfortable position for pooping.
Things were finally starting to turn around!

Crutch foot rests for pooping in comfort!?
I'm the KING OF THE WORLD!