On October 16th, I broke my leg in a roller derby bout against Mass Maelstrom near my hometown in Massachusetts. I shattered (and I hate to use the word “shattered” because I’m a hypochondriac, imagining the worst of every injury) my fibula and broke my tibia, meaning there was nothing connecting my foot bone to the knee bone. After two surgeries and 39 staples, I’m bionic – I’ve got a plate on my ankle, a metal rod in my right leg, and a dozen screws holding it all together.
For the first month, I was relegated to a couch and wore a huge, awkward boot that left me largely immobile. I watched more crap movies (did you know that Netflix doesn’t offer subtitles/captions on most of their instant titles?) and crap TV than I care to recount.
At my doctor’s request, I stayed at my father’s house twenty miles outside of Boston. It was good because a) I got to see family and hometown friends; b) my recovery required lots of check-ins to make sure I was recovering well; and c) I couldn’t even get around with crutches or a walker, much less make meals or do basic chores. I did get to have my favorite sub, though, the Budster: chicken fingers, bacon, BBQ sauce, and cheese in a torpedo sandwich. YUM. However, I couldn’t sleep, and I was taking painkillers like they were breath mints. Worse, I missed Syracuse and my life there.