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Anatomy of an ankle anarchy

How the hell did you do that?  Wow, you don’t mess around, you go all out!

These are common comments I get about my ankle injury. Especially from medical people. Broken ankles aren’t uncommon. Breaking all three bones is a little more uncommon. Breaking three bones with a complete dislocation is even better. However, the vast majority of those cases involve the ankle rolling toward the inside. Not me, mine completely snapped to the outside. You guessed it. That’s worse.

I must have really flown down a lot of stairs, right? 

Nope. I literally just slipped and only went down 4 steps. This impossible scenario confused all who saw (and repaired) the damage. 

Standing at the top of the stairs and asking detailed questions about my landing position, a wise friend asked, “Do you think your foot got caught in the stair rails as you fell?” 

That proverbial lightbulb clicked on and suddenly it pieced together. I remember my foot slipping out from under me, but by the grace of our built in emergency response system it all goes blurry. I’ve quizzed my family and they all concur that my body landed with my freaky foot facing into the stair rails. We have a winner!

I’m going to break it down: (Stop now if you are squeamish.) My hubby and I were watching our newest tv obsession and the kids were face-in-phone in the living room with us. During commercial break I thought I’d get a snack (next time stay on the couch chubs!) I took dishes with me as I headed down stairs because we had no functional kitchen upstairs at this time. I opened the metal dog gate and took a step but my Dr. Who slipper socks failed me and my feet slipped up out from under me. I began a downward slide. As my body gained momentum my left foot must’ve gotten caught up on or in the railing on the left and came to an abrupt halt as my leg kept careening forward. SNAP! Almost right off my body. In the mayhem the gate crashed down around me and shattered the dishes over me like evil sprinkles on a sucks-to-be-you-cake. 

In related recovery news, I am super proud to report that as of today I am officially released from being house bound. My blood pressure finally stopped bottoming out when I stand upright. Today my home health nurse tested me and determined me trustworthy on a walker without risk of passing out and shattering another limb. 


HOLY CANKLE! This is the least offensive picture from my first post-op appointment. I was so relieved to see my foot back on straight again! My cute toes deserve the Deluxe Spa Pedi as soon as the thought of someone rubbing my foot doesn’t make me gasp in anticipated pain.

I’m officially on the path to being healed and as soon as I have a willing driver and some tennis balls maybe you’ll see me and my nifty walker out buying new pajama pants to replace the ones the ER doctor cut off my body… yeah, I’m still bitter! And I never got my other Dr Who sock back!



Nothing is normal

I gingerly rubbed lotion into my broken leg and foot today. I sobbed. It wasn’t painful, it was just the first time I’ve really and fully touched my bruised, swollen in some places, saggy in others, flesh of that foot since my accident. It has taken three days since the cast removal to work up the nerve.  I knew I had nerve damage and numbness, but wasn’t sure the extent. I knew it wouldn’t feel like ‘my’ foot but I wasn’t ready to get personal with my new foot. 

I’m off of the major pain medicines. The good news is that I now have a clear head and can make decisions and memories (so sorry I didn’t remember your visit, Ang, I’m glad you found that funny instead of offensive!) but the bad news is that now I have to process my injury and recovery without blurry, drugged, edges. Now I have to learn to live with terms like, limited range of motion, limp, orthotic shoes, and permanent damage.  Under the beautiful blanket of opiates I heard, “minimum six weeks no weight bearing” to mean that in six weeks I’d walk out of my doctor’s office. Now I realize that means they won’t make any predictions until reviewing what the six week x-rays reveal.  

I don’t have a new normal yet. The bathroom is so far away and my blood pressure is still f*^%ing unstable so even peeing is an exhausting experience. 

I’m not the same mother. My kids have to help me get food and drinks. They help me get dressed. I’m not upholding any of my previous doting duties.

I can’t be the same wife. My husband is always my rock of stability but now he is sole provider, sole active parent, and alone in orchestrating this household. 

I’m certainly not the same daughter who calls her mother everyday to check in and laugh about life’s quirks. I’ve exhausted my mother in ways I can hardly think about over the last few weeks. 

I’m not even the same friend. I forget who I’ve talked to and don’t answer texts or calls for days. I’m taking instead of giving. I’m not there for anyone because I’m not yet able to be there for myself.

So I sobbed as I touched my new, not normal foot because I have to make peace with the new, not normal me. I have to put all my energy into healing, gaining back my mobility, and forgiving myself for not being myself. My husband sat with me saying all the right things but I know he’s hurting and scared too, because he’s also mourning the loss of our ‘normal.’

A friend said that I’ll find my new normal. But not yet. 

I just keep thanking God for kids, and husbands, and mothers, and friends who are willing to give me so much when I have empty arms in return. 


Please be kind 2017

Today is January 1, 2017 and I’ve already had two very good crying spells. Not the way to start a new year, in my opinion. Almost exactly two weeks ago I slipped on our stairs and broke my ankle. Now, when I say ‘broke’ I’m not referring to a fracture.  I mean broken. Shattered. I’ll never forget looking down and seeing my foot dangling off 90 degrees to the side of my leg and grotesquely deformed from displaced bones and swelling. I can’t get the image out of my head. Neither can my family, they all watched it happen.  My 15 year old called 911. This was 6 days before Christmas. 

I guess I’m pretty lucky that it took 42 years before I suffered a traumatic injury. Oh I’ve felt pain before. I’ve birthed two children and had two hip surgeries. Let me say none of those remotely compared to the pain of this injury.  It was a struggle to remain conscious through the pain. Even the maximum dose of morphine would only buy me a groggy hour before I’d wake crying again.  

Even splinted, any time I had to be moved I could feel the bones shifting inside of me and the searing pain made me scream involuntarily. I feel so bad for my poor family and one dear friend who had to witness any of it. 

I try to be a stoic person.  I’ve experienced some very difficult things in my life and I try to face situations with as much grace as I can.  But there I was, crying out in agony with three people trying to lift/position me every time I had to use the commode. It’s a level of vulnerability I’d never imagined. 

I’d suffered what is called a trimalleolar ankle fracture with dislocation. It’s basically the worst case scenario of ankle injuries. Three of the supporting ankle bones were snapped and my foot was left dangling like a tennis ball in a tube sock.  To save my foot, the ER doctor reduced the dislocation (under sedation) almost immediately.  Unfortunately there were snafus and setbacks that meant surgery wouldn’t happen for another three days. 

I was released from the hospital on Christmas Day and came home a house full of family and merriment, very little of which I actually remember.  The week after Christmas was a blur of charting medications, sleep, and visits from friends. 

How do I launch into the excitement of a new year when I can hardly leave my bed? My blood pressure still drops when I try to stand, so a wheelchair is necessary. I can’t cook, clean, drive, or care for my family and dogs. 

Now I learn the hardest lesson yet: helplessness and accepting help.  Now I learn to let my family take care of me for a change. I learn to let my house be in disarray. I learn to say ‘yes’ when someone offers assistance, because if I say no it might mean I lay in bed hungry and holding my pee until the next offer comes along. 

I’m learning that everyday brings healing and progress, no matter how slow. 

The Whole Truth and nothing but…

We humans are liars. There are a whole lot of reasons why and a whole lot of ways to go about it, but the bottom line is that our pants are on fire much of the time.

Sometimes in life we need to unzip our external skin of lies and let our ugly guts of truth hang out. It can be one of the most beautiful things we can do for other humans.

On September 13, 2001 I gave birth to six and a half pounds of perfection. I had planned and prepared for this glorious arrival. I brought him home to stacks of congratulatory cards and phone calls.

Something wasn’t right though. The cards all talked about sweet baby cuddles and giggles. The messages all mentioned the magic and preciousness of a new baby. Everywhere I looked in my house there were pictures of smiling, sleeping, or cooing infants.

Reality looked different. In reality my body felt swollen, painful, and eviscerated, I hadn’t slept for three days, and my baby was either crying or pooping out the side of his diaper. I was sad most of the time and pretty sure I’d already screwed up parenting.

When my son was two weeks old I took him to church for the first time. He was wearing a little Pooh Bear outfit and I was still wearing the same maternity clothes I’d put on sometime before he was born, I think. After the service the three pastors’ wives came up meet my bundle. I was meekly smiling and trying to play the role of glowing new mother. Finally one of the women said, “Oh I think all I did at two weeks was cry and refuse to leave the house.” Another piped in, “That’s about the time I thought I’d ruined our lives.”

One by one, those women started sharing stories of sleepless nights, infections, self doubt, and not having the time or sanity to cherish sweet little baby smiles and smells, if they even exist in those first few weeks.

I cried tears of relief, joy, and belonging. These brave women told it like it was. New babies are special and sweet. But there are a lot of really hard and scary moments in there too. I needed confirmation that I wasn’t the only new mom who felt that way.

What else are we not being honest about? I now have a teenager and a preteen. I can’t even be friends with anyone who doesn’t believe that their sweet beautiful child could ever be an major jack-wagon one day. I need people to say that yes, they too can’t stand to be in the same room with the child they birthed and would still willingly die for… in and instant.

What about mental illness? Marital strife? Self-esteem struggles? We are hurting so many people by denying that these are a normal part of life and are not indicative of failure.

I’ve learned to embrace the honest and genuine people in my life. The people who are less concerned with appearing perfect and more concerned with helping out and supporting others. Not whiners and eternal victims, but bad-ass real life warriors who can admit that they too have struggles so that we can encourage each other.

I’m still a liar.  But I promise to try to let my ugly guts hang out when you need it.  When you need to know that it is not just you, but that all of our lives are messy and ugly, and that it’s okay.  It’s more than okay, ugly messes are sometimes the best memories and at the core of all beautiful things.

It is a scary but wonderful thing to be honest about yourself with someone who needs it.

~~ Delaney~~                                                                                                                                                   One energy and one love connects us all; let’s protect it.



Lady in waiting

Right now my life is all about waiting. We are in the middle of a kitchen remodel.  It is a slow, painful, and messy process. I’m very excited for the finished product, but in the meantime I’m just waiting.  Most mornings I’m at home waiting for the workers to show up.  Right now I’m literally waiting for the drywall mud to dry.  I’m also waiting on our countertop slab to be cut to size.  So much waiting.

The rest of my house is in a state of waiting as well.  I can’t maintain organization in my home since other rooms are housing kitchen items at the moment. Cleaning is futile during the construction phase because of this layer of constant dust that swirls throughout our house. I can’t even decorate for holidays due to the mayhem and dust. There were no Halloween decorations this year, as we were waiting for the construction to begin, and no Dia De Los Muertos altar either.

I’m also personally in a stage of waiting in my life. I’ve expected, or maybe hoped, for some personal correspondence from a friend that hasn’t come.  I know everyone is busy this time of year and I know that I’m not the center of everyone’s universe, but days of a quiet phone and empty inbox start to feel mountainous and sad.

All this waiting. It’s almost perfect considering that this is the season of Advent.  Advent is the four weeks leading up to Christmas and it is literally the time for preparing and waiting. We are waiting both in the present and in the past.  We are remembering the wait leading up to Christ’s birth as we count down to Christmas Day but we are also still waiting for him to return in the future as promised.

Waiting is difficult.  Sometimes we feel lost or forgotten as we try to be patient.  Kids use the little chocolate-filled Advent Calendars to help them count down the days until Christmas.  It’s not so easy as an adult. I think it is harder because we have no control during the waiting phase.  I can’t jump in and finish my kitchen.  I can’t keep hounding friends for attention or quicken the delivery of mail.

Advent is also a time for preparation and reflection.  That is where the action comes in.  This is where we can make progress in our lives as we await big things to happen.  I have much to prepare for. I can have everything bought, wrapped, and carefully planned so that the minute my kitchen is done I can jump our household right into Christmas mode.  I can also be praying for my friends and family and thinking of ways to make their holidays a little brighter and easier, knowing that we are all stressed and busy this time of year. Waiting doesn’t have to be passive.  It can be active and fulfilling.  Christ’s second coming may or may not be in my lifetime but I can be seeking ways to deepen my faith while I wait.

What are you waiting for?





There is no ‘them’ only ‘us’

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My heart is aching and it gets worse every time a news story breaks. Shootings and killings are a daily occurrence. Why are we killing each other and why aren’t we stopping it. Is it because it’s only a problem for ‘them?’  Is it too scary for members of the majority to see and admit that there REALLY IS a very big problem?

We cling to our guns and cry for more guns while the bullets are lodging in the chests of our babies. Our fear tells us that only a gun in our own hands can protect our babies.  Which is admitting that we are willing to put a bullet in someone else’s baby.

We fear anything that we don’t understand.

We are killing in the name of a God that we don’t understand.

Black babies, white babies, rainbow flag babies, and Muslim babies all have one thing in common. All are babies of God. We all share one earth. We all breath the same air. The water that fills our oceans, falls as rain, and nourishes our bodies is all of one source: Earth. The same air and water that the dinosaurs, Benjamin Franklin, Abraham Lincoln, and Bob Marley lived off of is still recycling through us.

How do we not feel it in our very soul when a life is snuffed out due to hate and fear? We remove ourselves from it by putting it in the category of “them.”

There is no THEM there is only US. We are the human race. This foolishness must stop.

We must be thinking globally, not locally.  We must be trying to save everyone, not just the educated elite.

Every human must mourn these losses in a gut-wrenching and visceral way so that we can level the field and fight as one against evil.  Evil comes in all colors, genders, and religions. Evil pretends to be fear and self-righteousness. Don’t fall for it any more.

MOMS- I cry to you! All these fools with titles and degrees and rooms of policy makers can’t stop this insanity. But WE can. We must cry for every lost soul. Our children must watch us mourn. They must hear us wailing for the black babies, white babies, rainbow babies, and each and every baby who has had their breath stolen by violence. We must teach our babies to cry over each other. We must mourn together. We must fight for, instead of against, each other.

We have to start accepting that racism exists and is scary as hell.  It’s okay to not understand the scope of the problem. It’s not okay to deny it’s existence.  You can not continue to close your eyes and think that it won’t find you.  Racism is an evil that must be named.  It must be hunted and thrown into the public eye. Then we must painfully and humbly accept and admit that we are all playing into this most dangerous and evil game. Otherwise is festers and grows behind our backs while we try to sleep better at night by pretending it isn’t staring at us all the while.

I don’t want to live in a world where police officers are terrified to do their jobs and aren’t sure if they’ll make it home. I don’t want to live in a world where moms are terrified to let their black babies out of their sight because of police officers. I don’t want to live in a world where gay babies aren’t safe to follow their hearts and love authentically. I don’t want to live in a world where Islamic babies are fearful of wearing their traditional religious clothing.

While we fight, like territorial insects, our Earth is suffering. We are running out of land, water, and clean air. Babies are starving and disease is rampant. We are so focused on turbans, do-rags, and rainbows that we are literally forgetting about the living planet under our feet that we are all dependent upon.

I can’t change this. It is so painful to feel like I can do nothing. But I can mourn. I can wail loudly so that everyone around me must hear and take notice. Maybe someone will wonder why a Christian, affluent, white (ish) woman is wailing over the loss of THEM and will be moved to see that it’s all an illusion. We have all been foolishly led into battle against THEM. As long as we are in fighting mode the blood spills and Satan gets his wish. Who are THEY? There is only one earth to house and nourish all of us. We are all in this together.  We literally share all the same earthly energy regardless of our differences.

Wake up. THERE IS NO THEM! We are killing ourselves.  We are in the midst of an ignorant race for extinction and we are so busy pointing fingers that we don’t even see the blood on our own hands.

We are losing the one race that matters… the human race.



When I realized that ‘she’ is ‘me.’

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She sits on a bench looking at nothing.  Her hair is unwashed and ragged.  Her ill-fitted clothes are mismatched.  She clutches her purse a little too tight and mutters to no one in particular: It’s a dead give away that she isn’t functioning at maximum capacity.

Twenty years ago I would have laughed at this woman.  I would have talked about her to whomever accompanied me.  Twenty years ago we didn’t have cell phones with cameras, or Instagram for instant photo sharing, but I would have been young and insensitive enough to do just that if I could have.

Twenty years ago I hadn’t yet witnessed the decline of people precious to me.  I hadn’t yet held the saggy skin covered hand of a loved one or looked into their face, slackened like an empty bag.  Like you should be able to take their flesh to a tailor, and with a little altering, and a lot of pressing, it could once again fit the younger able-bodied loved one you remember.

I would have scoffed at the incoherent mutterings of this woman.  I had a twenty-year-old brain that would always be sharp and functioning at full capacity.

Of course, at twenty, I hadn’t yet witnessed the mental decline of a brilliant mind.  I couldn’t fathom the gifted mind of an engineering professor slipping away into confusion and fear.  I didn’t know what it looked like when the very mind that so loved you and taught you many of life’s important lessons starts to lose those very lessons, returning to a childlike state of dependency and need.

I didn’t understand that brilliant minds will start to misfire and wander away from current consciousness.  I didn’t want to believe that strong, able bodies will wither and begin the deterioration process long before death.

Twenty years ago I would have looked at this woman, then looked away in disgust.

Today I just looked at this woman.  I really looked at her.  I was looking at myself.  I was looking at my best friend.  I was looking at my favorite teacher.  I was looking at you.

She could have been a mother, teacher, surgeon, mentor, and friend.  I wanted to look past what was clearly no longer working and see into who this woman had been.  I longed to hear her story.   I wish I hadn’t been too late to know and love her in her prime.  I just hope she recognized her prime.  I hope she embraced the vibrancy of youth when she had it.

How long before my body and mind are no longer useful and functional?

“Live In the present.”

“Live every day like it’s your last.”

“Make the best of today.”

I get it now.  I didn’t get it twenty years ago.  Twenty years ago there were an endless number of ‘todays.’  Too many to count each one as precious.

I get it now.  I’ve seen lives end too soon.  I’ve seen lives carry on too long.  I’ve seen lives lived in such agony that they blow out their own flame.

Today I finally understand the importance of today.  I am embracing.  I am rejoicing.  I am vibrant and in my prime.




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