The holidays always make me think about the things I am thankful for. Here are just a few of the big ones this year:

• Jenna. She has topped my list for the past nine years, but this year I am more grateful for her than ever. She is always there for me and I love her so much more than I thought possible on our wedding day.
• My kids. They are all amazing in their own special ways and I love watching them grow. And I am thankful that Joey made me his “special hero” in a recent report, even though the main reason was that I am tall and help him reach things.
• My extended family. Last week, while in Arizona for my sister’s wedding, I was reminded how much I care about all of them and wish that they lived closer.
• Our home. Utah is far from family and they will never know how hard it is to be so far from them. But it is home. This year, I am especially grateful to have a house of our own again—even if it is one that needs some work.
• The members of our ward. This year, I am especially thankful for those that rushed to clear our driveway after a snowstorm.
• My job. I may not appreciate it every day, and I may not enjoy what I do all the time, but it is a good job that has always been there when I needed it.
• Handicap parking spaces and bathroom stalls. I never thought those would be on my thankful list, but they have become essential to life.
• People that smile with sympathy and move over when they see me coming on my crutches. You’d think it would get irritating, but when you realize that they are sincere, it becomes special.
• Anyone who rushes to open a door for someone on crutches or who asks if they can help in any way. There are more than you might think.

Of course, there are a lot more things on my list, but the Internet isn’t big enough. For now this will have to do.

It is funny how kids perceive the world. On Monday, as we were getting ready to go to the doctor for my first follow-up appointment since breaking my ankle, Chissa was watching me. She has reached the “why?” stage and spends a lot of time asking questions and commenting on things in her four-year-old way. As I was putting a shoe on my uncasted foot, she asked what I was doing. I told her I was getting ready to go to the doctor. She got a serious look on her face and, very matter-of-factly, told me: “You don’t sound very sick.” I laughed all the way to the doctor.

It was wonderful to get out after two weeks of bed-rest. The fresh (and very cold) air felt great after being cooped up for so long. Had it not been painful, I would have thought that the trip was far too short.

At the doctor’s office, they removed the old cast (the saw tickles!) and I finally got to see what my ankle looks like since the surgery: it looks gross. I have a four-inch scar on the right side of the ankle and a seven-inch scar on down the left side of my leg. Until that moment, I had thought that they’d only cut open one side because I’d read that they don’t cut open both sides unless it is absolutely necessary and I didn’t think it was that bad. I was wrong.

Before taking new x-rays, they pulled out the stitches. That, too was different than I’d expected. I thought that they would have to cut each stitch out like normal sewing, but they didn’t. The nurse cut a loop in the middle and then pulled the string out from each side. It stung like crazy!
We got to see x-rays this time. Normally, when I look at an x-ray, I have a really hard time seeing the fractures. It’s like looking at a sonogram of a baby; you just have to take the doctor’s word that you’re looking at whatever he says. Not this time. The breaks were pretty obvious and, yes, I did a real number on it.

Two bones—the tibia and the fibula—form the lower half of the leg and connect to the ankle. The tibia, the larger of the two, has a big ball on the end that attaches to the foot bone and forms the bump on the inside of the ankle. Well, I snapped two sections of the ball—including the bump—right off. My doctor reattached the largest of the two sections with a two-and-a-half-inch screw and a pin that go right up into the bone. That is where I got the four-inch scar. The second section that I broke off is in the back. It is not required for mobility and was sitting in the right place, so they left it alone.

On the other side of my leg, I snapped right through the fibula about four inches above the ankle. This was the most obvious fracture in the x-rays. Even without the big plate and seven screws that surrounded it, it was have been pretty obvious. That is where the seven-inch scar came from.

In the hospital, the doctor was hopeful that I would be able to get a “walking” cast after the first two weeks, though he promised nothing. Well, I didn’t. He just took me off “strict” bed-rest and put me on “semi” bed-rest, which means that I can go out occasionally but need to keep my foot elevated and I am to put no weight on my ankle for another four weeks. He also gave me a prescription (of sorts) for a handicapped placard that will let me use handicap parking spaces while I heal. I have another appointment in four weeks where he will decide if it is okay to put me in a boot or if I will need a third cast.

This time I got to choose the colors of my new cast (not that I had a problems with the blue one as that is my favorite color). I went with a holiday cast (green and red). I figured that, if my ankle had to be wrapped up for Christmas, it might as well look like a present. We’re paying enough for it. We got a silver marker for the kids to write their names on it, so now it is all sparkly.

‘Til next time, here is “The Twelve Days of Christmas, the Broken Ankle Version:”

On the first day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: an ankle surgery.
On the second day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: two silver crutches.
On the third day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: three complex fractures.
On the fourth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: a four-inch scar.
On the fifth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: FIVE KINDS OF DRUGS!
On the sixth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: six weeks of bed-rest.
On the seventh day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: a seven-inch incision.
On the eighth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: eight ankle screws.
On the ninth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: nine different x-rays.
On the tenth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: ten working toes.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: eleven painful stitches.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my doctor gave to me: Twelve months of bills.

I’m writing all this down for anyone that wants to know but also so I can remember it for years to come.

Two weeks ago I was scraping ice off my car getting ready to go to work. It had rained a little that morning and the few ice patches that were left on the carport were very slippery. Just behind the car, my right foot found a slippery spot and down I went. I tried to catch myself with my left foot but my momentum carried me forward and I wound up trying to kneel on my ankle (imagine trying to touch your toes with your knee and that is basically what I did).

Before that day, I had always wondered if you could really hear and feel a bone snap. Well, now I know, because I did. I knew immediately what I had done and called for Jenna, who called our bishop for help. After a few minutes, of debate on the best way to get me into the van, we were on our way to the hospital.

I think that what surprised me most was how little pain I felt. My foot was dangling at the end of my leg and, yes, it did hurt, but I expected it to hurt much more. At the hospital, they kept asking me how bad the pain was on a scale of 1-to-10 and I kept saying “about a 5.”

At the hospital, they ordered some x-rays. There were two x-ray technicians. At one point, one was holding my foot while the other supported my leg. The one supporting my leg let go for a second and my leg dropped but my foot didn’t. That was a very odd sensation.

One of the funniest things about the emergency room is that the nurses and technicians are not allowed to diagnose a problem, no matter how obvious it is. So they are very careful about what they say. I asked the x-ray technicians how it looked and they said “your doctor will talk to you about it.” But when they went behind the metal curtain to make sure that the x-rays came out okay, I could hear them whispering to each other. “Look at that! That’s gotta hurt!”

Not long after the x-rays, the doctor came in and stated the obvious: I had broken my ankle. He said that it was pretty bad and that I needed surgery. He also said that I had dislocated my foot and that they had to set it and put it in a splint. Fortunately, they decided to knock me out before doing it.

Getting knocked out was a funny experience. Everyone was coming into the room, getting everything ready. They hooked up an IV and gave me some morphine which made me feel like I was sinking into the floor (I can’t understand why anyone would take that stuff for fun. It just made me tired). That made me drowsy and I kept closing my eyes. I was still waiting for the stuff that would actually knock me out. After closing my eyes for a few minutes (at least, that’s what it felt like), I opened them and everyone was gone. I asked Jenna when they were going to put me in the splint and she said they had done it already. I didn’t believe her and looked over the blankets and pillows to my foot and, sure enough, it was already in a split. I didn’t remember a thing.

Even funnier, Jenna told me that I carried on a full conversation with my surgeon while the drugs were starting to kick in. He asked about my medical history and I answered. She said I got everything right, even if I did sound drowsy. I didn’t remember meeting him at all. And then, as they were trying to put the splint on, I apparently kept trying to roll over. Jenna had to physically restrain me.

It is strange the things you think of when you are in pain and heavily drugged. As they wheeled me to the surgery room, I remember watching the lights flash overhead and telling Jenna that it was just like the movies. It reminded me of Scrubs and I was disappointed that the surgical team didn’t wear green scrubs. Incidentally, that was my last thought before waking up in the hospital room a few hours later with a brand new cast. Again, I apparently met my surgeon but didn’t remember a thing.

Spending the night in the hospital isn’t very fun. I suddenly have a little more sympathy for what Jenna had to go through with each of the kids. Not the pain part (she has assured me that I will never understand that part), just the getting woke up every couple of hours to check vitals and all that stuff part.

The next day I went home to two weeks of bed-rest. That ended yesterday, now I’m just on semi-bed-rest. I’ll write more about that later.

Just for kicks, I’m going to conclude with a list of “firsts” that I’ve gone through over the past two weeks. Here it is:

First broken bone

First time in the emergency room for myself (I’ve been in ERs before thanks to Chissa)

First time being knocked out

First experience with morphine

First cast

First stitches

First time being “fed” air through tubes in my nose (that is uncomfortable)

First night in a hospital

First time using crutches

Next time, I’m going to write about my visit to the doctor yesterday. Until then, have a better day than I’m having!