(The appendage in Question. Photo Socotra).

The Master Chief sent me a neat account of his participation in Operation Frequent Wind, and I was going to get to it this morning, but I walked around too many mental rosebushes to get it together this morning.

I was up way too early, so there really was no reason not to be better organized, but besterday was sort of a lost in a haze after the excitement of going to Walter Reed. I won’t bore you with the blow-by-blow. The Bethesda campus of the newly-consolidated flagship of the crown jewel of military medicine is not an easy place to get to, being at just about the twelve o’clock position on the Beltway, and me living at about eight pm across the Potomac in Virginia with a couple key choke points in between.

In my usual robust health, it did not matter much. But since becoming a (temporary) cripple, getting there has become a real production number. Right after surgery I had to rely on family and friends to help me get there and be wheeled around. You can only impose so far, and by the third follow-up visit, I had to manage on my own, on crutches, and yesterday, I nearly danced out of the apartment with my cane, thinking, I guess, that the Doc would tell me to cast it aside and go forth and start walking again.

I was wildly optimistic about the outcome, and the early journey served to buoy my mood. Traffic was not bad going there- Fridays are the best commuting days here, and I requested the early appointment for that reason. I got there without event, parked the car in the structure and hobbled over to the American Building, and up to Ortho. There they directed me to Satellite Radiology for x-rays to assess the state of recuperation, and I got the first of several unsettling revelations.

To take the images of the inside workings of my leg, I had to take the brace off and actually put weight on the leg for the first time since surgery.

“Whoa! That feels weird!” I told the technician, and got concerned that I would fall again. Almost made me giddy.

But we got through a series of views of the inner workings of the knee and thigh, and was embarrassed at the security I felt as I put the scaffold around back around the leg. The Tech directed me to head back to Ortho. I held on to the handrail in the corridor, and felt like I had regressed a week.

I got a seat in the waiting area after reporting back. I checked the watch and saw it was still only an hour in the facility- not bad. I barely got the iPad open and could not Tweet meaningless information before they called my name to go wait somewhere else, this time on a gurney in a line of five or six other patients separated by thin curtains that did nothing whatsoever to mute the conversation and diagnosis alongside.

Eventually I was seen by Dr. Hayes, a courtly African American in a long white coat. The only personnel I recognized back in the clinic was a pregnant Corpsman who was very nice, but it meant a nearly complete turn-over in people in the month I had been gone. Continuity of care? Non-existent.

Oh well, you get what you pay for and I was paying nothing.

I removed the brace again to save time for the doctor, and noticed there was a spot of inflammation on the mostly healed incision that had not been there the day before. Two deep spots with scabs- sorry for TMI- but they seemed to be progressing even if the third spot seemed to be erupting.

Doctor Hayes expressed his concern over that, and asked about rehab, and I told him I had an appointment to start next week- the power outage from the Big Storm and start-date of my company insurance plan (01 July) had conspired against a rigorous commencement to that.

He nodded and directed me to report back in another month, and watch the possible infection closely. I nodded in agreement and asked my questions:

“Can I get in the water?” The answer was “Yes,” and my heart soared. But that spot has to heal.

“Stay in the brace until I come back in August?” “Yes.”

He adjusted the dial-a-matic meter on the external knee joint to 65 degrees, a twenty-degree increase in range-of-motion.

“You need to continue the physical therapy,” he said, to which I responded “Yes,” and made a note to reconfirm my appointment for next Tuesday. Then the Doc was done and moved on down the row of gurneys to the next patient. I put the brace on and slung my OD-green sack over my shoulder and grabbed the cane. I tapped my way down the hall to the front desk to make my appointment and try to think about the rest of the day.

This was not quite what I expected, and less than I had hoped, but still good. And swimming and the water beckon. It is just a little mid-course correction.

The walk back to the structure was tiring, and I was glad to climb back in the Bluesmobile. Leaving the campus, I saw that ten o’clock meant something at the America Building. A dozen or more wheelchairs and kids on crutches were headed that way. The injuries ranged from single amputees, to doubles (the most prevalent consequence of being blown up by an IED while seated in a vehicle), to a couple of horrifying triples.

So, Walter Reed was what it was. A good report on a steady recovery entering a new phase that will have some challenges, but nothing like those kids. Nothing. I was embarrassed to be taking up space on the same campus with them.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com