They gave me crutches to walk with.
That sentence alone should probably have a warning label on it.
Everyone I encountered yesterday in the medical field rolled their eyes when I mentioned those crutches. Especially when I explained that I had a broken and bound right ankle, and had been told very clearly not to put any weight on it.
None.
Zero.
And yet somehow, they sent an almost eighty-year-old man home with crutches.
So I tried to use them.
Of course I did.
I needed some independence. I needed to get water from the kitchen. I needed to get to the bathroom. I needed some way to exist inside my own house without crawling across the floor with a painful broken ankle.
Because let me tell you something: crawling to the kitchen for water, or crawling to the bathroom to recycle it, sucks big time.
There is nothing dignified about it.
There is nothing inspirational about it.
It is just pain, carpet, tile, sweat, and reality.
Then came the bathroom.
There I was, balancing two crutches under my armpits, my dick in one hand, and holding the edge of the toilet with the other. That was my big independence plan.
And then I went down.
Backwards.
Into the shower.
With a big bang and a loud, “Oh shit.”
That was the sound of Plan A ending.
When I crawled back up, Charley was calling 911 again. And that’s when I realized I had hurt my lower left back badly.
Badly.
As the evening went on, and I found myself back in another hospital, the back pain became worse than the ankle pain.
That’s when crawling stopped being an option.
So there I was. Broken ankle. Hurt back. No real way to move. No graceful path through any of it.
And then my granddaughter Shelby went to work from Pensacola.
Shelby began creaming medical assholes over the phone.
That may not be the official medical term, but it is the accurate family term.
She pushed. She called. She made noise. She did what needed doing when the system seemed perfectly willing to send me home with equipment that made no sense for my condition.
And eventually, we ended up with a rolling walker called a rollator.
It arrived at the house unassembled, because of course it did.
My roommate put it together.
I got back home last night, and Charley rolled it into my bedroom this morning.
And I have to admit something.
I like it.
I really like it.
I’m using it now to do everything. I’m sitting on it right here at my laptop as I write this post.
This thing is not just a walker. It is a rolling chair, a balance point, a moving platform, and for the moment, my little island of independence.
It does not make me young.
It does not fix the ankle.
It does not erase the fall into the shower, the ambulance, the hospital, or the pain in my back.
But it gives me a way to move.
And right now, that is everything.
I have also gotten hold of a major local orthopedic specialist group nearby, Bienville Orthopaedic Specialists at the Cedar Lake Clinic. There is a noted doctor there who specializes in ankle injuries.
I have a 9:30 appointment with him tomorrow morning.
Maybe I walk out with a repaired ankle.
Maybe I wait until he can get me in.
Maybe this is just the next step in a recovery that has already gotten more complicated than I wanted.
But at least now I have the rollator.
And that sounds small until you are the one who has been crawling on the floor.
Yesterday, independence looked like crutches and disaster.
Today, it has four wheels, hand brakes, a seat, and just enough dignity to keep me going.
I am so incredibly sorry to hear about the fall, Jim. Reading that you went down backwards into the shower made my stomach drop—that is a genuinely scary situation, and crawling on the floor just to handle basic human needs is exhausting and completely undignified. It makes total sense why that back pain has eclipsed the ankle; a back injury on top of a broken ankle is a brutal combination.
But man, thank goodness for Shelby. "Creaming medical assholes over the phone" is an absolute elite-tier family description, and she clearly knows how to get results when the system fails you. Sending an 80-year-old man home on non-weight-bearing restrictions with just crutches is mind-bogglingly reckless.
I’m so glad the rollator has arrived and is already giving you that "island of independence" back. There is zero shame in utilizing the right tools to keep yourself moving and upright, especially when it means you aren't stuck crawling. Sitting on it at your laptop is the perfect use case.
Good luck at the Cedar Lake Clinic with the Bienville Orthopaedic specialist tomorrow morning at 9:30. I really hope this doctor gives you a clear, solid game plan for that right ankle (and hopefully can take a look at or advise on that lower left back, too).
Rest up today, lean into that rollator, and let me know how the appointment goes tomorrow. You’ve got this, Jim.