Sunday Storytime: A Year Ago, Monday

A year ago Monday, it was a Sunday.

Bryan and I took the kids to beautiful Mt. Cutler in Cheyenne Canyon. It's about a 30 minute drive to get there, and the hike is about a mile long with a gradual elevation gain, so the kids could do pretty well with it.

The view along the way are amazing and at the top, as per our usual, because we did this hike a lot, we set out our blanket and ate our picnic as we overlooked the canyon.

Then we headed down. Joshua was too big for the baby backpack, so we took turns carrying him on our backs and making him hoof it. I was carrying him when: Slip. Going Down. OhnomakesureJoshualandssafely. Pop. Joshlandsonhisfeet. I land. . .on. . .my. . .butt. . .what is that horrible, horrible pain?

I screamed. A general, "Owwww! OOOWWWWW!" kind of scream.

Bryan and Gemma heard me and caught up in a hurry.

We took stock. I has slipped at the top of the last switch back of the trail. So. Maybe 2 to 3 city blocks to go. (This is how I picture distance: by how they would be measured off in concrete sidewalk squares.)

Bryan took the kids and hustled down the mountain as I lay there. He was going to lock them into the car and then come back up for me.

I was praying, praying, praying. That everything would turn out OK. Shortly after he left, a tingly numbness set it and my ankle suddenly didn't hurt anymore. It just. . .tingled.

A couple of hikers came upon me on their way down and offered help. I sized them up, and while I didn't want to refuse help in a time of great need, I also didn't want what appeared to be a man weighing 120 lbs and a woman weighing about 90 lbs to involve themselves. Particularly when my husband would be along shortly.

But the little man declared, "Let's get you down this mountain." At first we tried one of my arms over each set of their shoulders, but that didn't work. The woman was just too small for the job.

The man's next idea: I should just climb onto his back.

I told him, no need, my husband would be coming for me in just a few minutes, besides
a) that's how I hurt myself in the first place and I was only carrying a baby and

b) If you fall with me like I fell with my baby, it will really hurt. For me. Not just you. and

c) Although the surgeon I will meet tomorrow and the surgeon I will meet months from now after a breast cancer diagnosis will both tell me that I am thin, I am still way too big for you.

He was not deterred. And, God Bless him, he piggybacked me the rest of the way down.

Bryan caught up to us at the very end. I remarked, "I think I only sprained it. If I'd broken it, the pain would be a lot worse, no?" I hadn't realized that the adrenaline was responsible for the tingly feeling.

I got into the car. Then the adrenaline wore off when we hit our first bump and I dropped a very loud f-bomb. Right in front of Gemma and Joshua. It was, however, the only cuss word I used in the whole escapade.

A painful 30 minute drive home ensued. We were in the Volvo, which gets some serious pick-up. Normally, I am the annoying sort of wife who nags her husband about driving too fast and too aggressively.

On this drive, as we barrelled down the road at 70 in a 55, I was gritting out between clenched teeth, "YOU HAD BETTER MAKE THIS LIGHT!!!!"

We got home (which is on the way to the ER). Bryan stayed with kids while my neighbor took me to the ER. Now, at this time, the Presidential election was 5 weeks away and I still had hair. Dark hair. I wore it up on the sides and in front. I wore glasses. I wore lipstick. So it was not too surprising to me when the nurse who wheeled me into triage said, "Look! We have Governor Palin in our hospital tonight!"

To which I said, as I did to the several others who made this remark to me that September and October, "I had this brainy look going a long time before she came along."

I fractured my tibia and fibula right above the ankle, and dislocated a small ankle chip. I got an appointment with the Chief of athletic medicine at the Air Force Academy. This is the kind of surgeon one wants for this operation because this is the guy who fixes tib-fib fractures all day long. But he wasn't supposed to be my doctor.

No. Originally, I was supposed to have my surgical consult with a guy at Ft. Carson. The night of the accident, with the consult scheduled for the next morning, I called my brother-in-law, a bone surgeon, to ask what kind of questions I should be asking the surgeon I'd go to see. You know: to make sure I wasn't dealing with an idiot.

Brent said, "Amy, you're not going to Ft. Carson! You're going to the Air Force Academy where Senators' sons go!!" and he called one of his best friends, Dr. Tokish, whom Brent knew from his own tour at the Academy. Der! I had totally forgotten that Brent had even served as a surgeon at the AFA!

I labor to explain all this because months later, when I was set up with a surgical consult at Ft. Carson, I wanted nothing to do with him. Mayfield. Whatever. The Air Force surgeon wasn't available because he was in Iraq. But Ft. Carson? No way. I had been strongly cautioned against it. So Bryan and I went to that appointment with both guns loaded with reasons why we wanted a referral to some place else.

But. Well. Score one for Ft. Carson.

That Sunday night, after I got home from the ER, Bryan brought the kids to Betsy's house and they stayed there until Thursday, when my mother arrived to help for 2 weeks.

The next day I saw Dr. Tokish and he operated on me at 4:30 Monday in the civilian hospital right up the street from my house. I saw the after x-ray and my ankle now looks like a home improvement project: a 3 inch stainless steel plate held in with 4 screws, plus an additional screw stuck in from the other side for good measure. So I was bionic almost a year before the port installation.

We had a great time with Mom. Then Gayl, Bryan's Mom, came for the next 2 weeks and we had a great time with her. I was able to do a lot more myself by then, so she was free to help him on the basement finishing project, the kind of thing they both love to do, so that was a special blessing for them.

I came to appreciate my children in a fundamentally important way through the experience of being off my feet for 6 weeks. And I could go on about all the great things the Lord did in our lives and my heart through this accident and the recovery.

Just think: At the time, I thought this would be the Big Event of my 30's!

I wrote an e-mail to my family a couple days after surgery, giving all the details of what had happened, and I concluded with this paragraph:

"My neighbors are taking good care of me. Ladies from our church will be bringing meals. The pain is very well controlled with pretty mild stuff. And the JFCC IMD/J35 "family" just sent me flowers. Really, we are very, very blessed and I feel very, very loved. Nothing to complain about, given how bad things could have been and just how great things are."

Funny.

Even though things, in some ways, are now a lot worse, other things are, in some ways, so much better. And I feel like I could write that same paragraph today, a year later, and still mean every word.