Had my first doctor’s appointment today; a week and a half after surgery. He carefully unraveled the gauze around the splint his team put on me in the operating room while revealing some nasty blood stains that caused me to turn away from the view of my own appendage. I don’t like blood. I don’t like looking (or licking) wounds. So I turned away as my leg, surgical staples and dried skin and crusty toes were exposed. Angie took the picture.
Eager for him to put another splint on, he said I don’t need one. So a week and a half after surgery he’s letting me off.
“Be sure you don’t put any weight on your leg,” he reminded me. “Your body will tell you.”
Great. I’m more worried about someone knocking into it. He handed me another prescription for
Darvocet and sent me home.
“See ya in two weeks,” he motioned as I hobbled down the sterile grey corridor of his office. Hell, he sounded like every contractor I worked with who has been late on the job. Two weeks.
Hey, I guess this is progress.