Last Monday, after six months of torture, the metal in my ankle was finally removed. Sliced out. Unscrewed. Tugged free. Removed!

One last recap, because I am so done with this, I fell (Pride Before Fall). Technically I broke mid-air, then fell but… semantics. I broke my ankle in a horrible, terrible, no-good way. I needed surgery to put humpty-dumpty together again. The thing is, that surgery? It involved plates & screws. And those? Uncomfortable as all get out!

On Monday, six months ahead of schedule, the plate & screws came out. Oh happy, happy, joy, joy! I can already feel a difference, despite a plethora of stitches, in how my ankle feels & responds. It’s amazeballs! But why six months ahead of schedule you ask? For that matter, why did my plate & screws come out at all?

I can’t answer that last one. In my extensive reading on a Weber C class fracture, I discovered that there’s different schools of thought on removing hardware. Some countries don’t remove it all. Some after a year. A few after nine months. And rarely after six months.

In fact, my surgeons decision to remove my hardware after six months was questioned every step of the way. By the pre-op doc, nurse, x-ray tech & probably the janitor. Luckily, they all seemed willing to give it a shot and out it all came. I credit my love of cheese and extreme dedication to physical therapy with the incredible healing of my bones.

On my x-rays it is impossible to see where once my bone was fractured and splintered. The angry white lines have completely disappeared, blended in with new dark healthy bone. My ankle looks brandnew and beautiful. It’s like all the delicious Dutch cheese I ate was my own personal fountain of youth. For my ankle, that is.

I went into surgery on Monday excited but nervous. After six months, my ankle had done a lot of healing. I knew what I was in for. The whole scar, both scars (a long one on the side, a short on on the front) would be cut completely open. Things would be wriggled around, tugged on, unscrewed. I would have stitches and pain and healing to go through. Again. I really want to reach the next step of healing, but I’m a baby about pain.

I’m also a baby about anesthesia. My body doesn’t like it. It doesn’t want to wake up. By now though the hospital knows this and I have a wonderful anesthesiologist. He not only tried a different cocktail, from which I awoke feeling fantabulous and not foggy in the least, but he took his time making me feel comfortable and cared for.

He spent some time talking to me as I laid there, strapped down once again, surrounded by a full soccer team size of German surgeons & nurses. I do speak German, but being strapped down while everyone speaks a foreign language is just scary. He saw my fear, bent down, talked to me. Found out I love snow, mountains, snowboarding. And proceeded to weave a wonderful guided meditation set in the Austrian alps.

I drifted off to sleep easily. Woke up beautifully. Metal free. I love him.

It’s out! It’s out!