So I have gone from the point of ice-packing and medicating my demolished leg
to a new stage involving compression bandages, something I would have thought of days ago if it had been anyone’s leg but mine.
A veteran of numerous twisted ankles (my lawn is full of gopher and rabbit holes), I have a whole library of these Ace bandage things available for changing and laundering. After five initial days of “just shoot me” pain and another week of random spasms and ignominious hobbling, to say nothing of being unable to find a sleeping position that didn’t stress one of the various muscles involved, I realized that what I craved was reinforcement. I broke out a roll and mummy-wrapped the offending thigh, and after an initial quarter-hour of grief, I had my leg back. Back. A little bitching on the warmup bike and calisthenic foreplay, but the hack sled came up goddammit without that “gee it might break” moment of wretchedness in the middle of the rep, and oh jaysis, I could walk. Walk without lurching and causing people to say “You’re limping!” (Really? How about that! I hadn’t noticed! Thanks for telling me!)
Best guess, the fascial inflammation is resolving but taking its own damn sweet time, as white tissue will, and the compression both supports the muscles and keeps the swelling flushed out of the space between muscular compartments. Instead of hitching and squealing (figuratively) when I shift my weight onto my left leg, the adductors just do their fucking job. I can walk down stairs. Or up stairs.
A damn good thing because, as it happens, the Engineer and I had tickets to a performance of the Rocky Horror show, of all things, performed by the Gilbert and Sullivan company to which my late and ex husband once belonged. The Washington Gay Men’s Chorus once did Pirates of Penzance in full blue drag, so turnabout is fair play.
I had never been to a Rocky Horror performance before. They call anyone who is seeing the show for the first time down to the stage, inscribe a V for Virgin on your forehead with lipstick, and require you to fake an orgasm then and there in front of the house. Most of the dozen or so folk in line with me managed to squeak out a bashful “oh my god” or “oh baby.”
I was so excited at stumbling only once on the way down to the stage that, bandages and all, I gave it my best.
I must have aced it. The cast sent me back up to the mezzanine and made the rest of the patzers do something rude with Twinkies.
It was a great show.