A selfie of a cast? With a pink background? Pathetic.
Because it's roughly the size of the Titanic and has a mind of its own, it seems to enjoys banging into furniture, chipping paint, denting woodwork and nearly topples me over should a crutch fail to support it. And, at night, if it slides off the edge of the mattress, I am quickly awakened to a gravitational pull slowly tugging me towards the floor; much like the steady sinking into quicksand.
Man, I despise this thing.
The tiny bathroom is way too crowded with the sink, toilet, bath/shower, crutches, towels, and clean clothes as I prepare to take a bath. Whatever space is vacant is instantly occupied by The Cast. It's everywhere. Heaven forbid it gets wet, so a 55 gallon trash bag is slipped over the montrosity for waterproofing. Coincidentally, this bag also protects the cast from any efforts I have of accidentally-on-purpose drowning the damn thing while taking a bath.
Water is drawn to a moderate level in the bathtub as I sit on the edge like a scuba diver ready to roll off the boat. 3-2-1 and splash, I'm in.
The cast dangles over the edge like a water-phobic wussy as I rotate on my back to lay in the tub. I shampoo my hair and tip my head back where water rushes into my ears. The underwater world fascinates me and I enjoy listening to the muffled, swarmy sounds it creates. I close my eyes to analyze how distorted the typical household noise has become, but I'm immediately distracted by pain in my right knee.
Mr. Cast, still hanging on the oustside of the tub, has the distinct advantage of leverage and is wrenching on my knee. Seething with distaste as it continually bosses me around, I hoist it over the edge to join me inside the tub. Washing and rinsing, I give thanks to the crossfit and H.I.I.T. instructors for all the core work that has made this portion of the procedure easy.
Coming out of the tub is easy, too. The cast is nearly the perfect counterbalance where it is like the proverbial fat kid at the other end of the teeter-totter. I drop it over the edge of the tub to the tiled floor which pops me up and out of the tub.
I dry off, get dressed and direct my annoyance towards the crutches because of all the chaffing damage they've inflicted on my upper ribs/lat muscles. But, hopping around the house, one-legged "Gangnam Style," has minimized the chaffing. Don't know "Gangnam Style?" Spare yourself, don't Google it...
What was that? Did I just see the cast and crutches join up for a team smirk?
"Soon," I tell them, "very soon, you are history."
Next week the cast will be gloriously pitched into the trash and replaced with a walking boot. I can't wait. Yeah, I know. Give me a day and I'll be bitching about how it, too, interferes way too much in my life. But, it's a significant step in the healing process that I will cherish.
What about the compression panty hose/sock on my good leg to ward off bloodclots? That baggy thing was worthless...guess I'll ask for kid's extra-small if there is ever a next time...
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