đ§ Listen to Sarah read this installment of Cured.
The fall happens fast. One moment, Iâm walking down the stairs; the next, Iâm moving through space. I land to the sound of bone snapping.
Iâm ridiculously lucky this has happened at the gym. Within minutes, a flurry of personal trainers is around me, helping me limp over to a weight bench and prop up my leg. The irony is rich that Iâve injured myself walking down the stairs, not doing some bionic box jump or high-speed treadmill run, which I donât do anyway.
âI think you broke it,â one says, biceps bulging beneath his t-shirt.
âDefinitely,â the other says, his face aglow with health.
Soon, my ankle is Gothically swollen. I call an Uber. They help me to the door and navigate the slush outside and ease me into the car.
At Immediate Care, my ankle is x-rayed. The attending physician tells me my distal fibula is fractured. She puts the X-ray against the lightbox. Itâs unmistakable: a piece of bone broken off in the blackness as if floating in space.
Thereâs no question the bone is broken. The diagnosis isnât in doubt. We can see precisely that itâs the fibula, not the tibia.
In this, itâs so unlike the six mental health diagnoses I received over the past twenty-five years. No X-rays for those. No blood tests. Just doctorsâ best guesses at how to define my bouts of depression, anxiety, confusion, exhaustion, obsessions, hyperactivity, compulsions, insomnia, panic, and suicidality (not all at once).
âThe fibula isnât a weight-bearing bone,â she says. âIt supports and stabilizes. It keeps us steady. To heal, you need to immobilize your ankle.â
No doctor or mental health professional who leveled a psychiatric diagnosis ever mentioned healing.
Then it strikes me (slowly, dully) that I wonât be able to walk. âFor how long?â I hear the panic in my voice. Iâm already trying to heal from serious mental illness, and Iâve stopped taking Klonopinâjust quit cold turkey, which is a terrible, terrible idea, as Dr. R will later inform me. The only relief from the constant hum in my chest is walking miles and milesâno matter how cold or snowy it isâas far as it takes.
âThe orthopedic surgeon will give you a precise estimate for how long youâll need to wear the boot,â she says, clearly not understanding the tragedy thatâs just occurred.
âA week or so?â Even to me, what Iâve just asked sounds absurd.
âUm,â she draws out the word, âIâm going to guess itâs going to take longer than that.â
A nurse comes in with a huge, heavy, black orthopedic boot.
The physicianâs tone is firm. âDonât go walking around in it. When I say immobile, I mean immobile.â
âBut Iâll be able to walk?â I ask as if she didnât just say Donât go walking around in it.
âThe boot is support. A broken bone needs to remain stable. Otherwise, it wonât join or regrow properly. People try to push it, but that will just delay healing.â
I ask if I can walk a bit, just here and there, justâ
âYou canâif you donât ever want to heal or walk again.â She opens the door to leave. âAnd keep it elevated even when you sleep. Maybe even sleep in the boot.â
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