I had this wrench that I used to make the adjustments on my fixator with. It was a little 7 mm wrench that was made by the same company that made my external fixtor; it wouldn't surprise me if it actually belonged to some sort of super expensive fixator kit tucked away somewhere in the hospital. But I had it for a while. Now, when you think about it, having a wrench is not some crazy thing or novelty item, not like owning ninety-seven cats or hoarding newspapers or collecting pieces of toast that look like Elvis. Most people have at least one wrench somewhere in their home. After all, it is a common tool. This wrench, however, was different. I literally used that wrench to regrow part of my body and that is not something that many people can say they had to (or got to) do.
I made adjustments to my fixator twice a day. Every twelve hours almost every single day for four months. There was some initial confusion when I first got the fixator because I couldn't remember whether or not I made all the necessary adjustments per day. I didn't have a system to keep track; the wrench just sat on my desk and I would rely on my memory... it didn't always work. It's kind of funny because at first I really did remember - it was like clockwork, an exciting thing that gave me some control over my body and situation, but a few weeks in and all the days started to blend together and that's when it became difficult to figure out if I had made the right adjustments or not. This was kind if a disater because my bone was suppoer to grow at a specific, steady rate. Grow to littler and you end up with premature consolidation; make adjustments faster than the bone grows and, well, the bone can't kep up. And you know what they say, slow and steady winds the race. My mum, being as smart and savvy as she is, came up with a solution. Before bed, I placed the wrench on my bookshelf. When I would wake up at eight I would grab it, make my adjustments and place it down on my desk. Then I would get on with my day. Fast forward twelve hours and I would hobble back over to my desk. If the wrench was on it, it meant that I still had to make adjustments but if it was back on the bookshelf I new that I was completely done for the day. It seems pretty simplistic, but this system worked for me.
The goal was always to grow 6.5 cm of bone and then to crank the knob on the fixator some more to put pressure on my leg, coaxing the ends of my bone to knit together. This plan was put on hold for about a week in March because of the heterotopic ossification thing but after that we hoped it would be smooth sailing to the finish line - a whole new section of tibia! Unfortunately for me, although the seas were clam and the winds fair for about a fortnight, they did not stay that way. My pins started bending, my leg started hurting... well, more than it normally hurt, and I found out that there was, yet again, premature consolidation at the wrong end of the bone. And that's when our plans blew away in the wind and all hopes of continuing with the adjustments sunk... sunk like a metal wrench in water. I don't actually know why I wrote that last bit... almot everything sinks.
Last week I had to have one of my pins removed because it had gotten infected. When I had seen my surgeon the week before, he told us that we wouldn't be making anymore adjustments. Being the organized woman (woman? Or girl. I mean I am wearing elephant pajamas. And not the one's from a post last week - I have multiple elephant pajamas) I am, I realized that I wouldn't need the tiny silver coloured wrench sitting n my bookshelf any more and decided to return it to it's rightful owner (my surgeon) before it got lost in that bottomless drawer or junk we all seem to have. I couldn't actually take it in to the operating room with me (although I nervously fidgeted with it while being prepped), so my mum gave it back to him when he came to talk to her when everything was done.
Now I no longer have my trusty little wrench. Not that it ever truly was my wrench; it was more like it was on loan to me from the hospital. But it became part of my every day routine and a major component of my leg getting better. And now I no longer have it. It seems that I have grown slightly attached to it. I miss looking voer and seeing it on the shelf, the weight of it in my hand, the slight resistence I felt when I used it to adjust my fixator. If this is how I feel about a tiny little metal object, imagine how I will feel about my fixator when it comes off. It will seem like a part of me is gone.
Why am I telling you all this? Because I am a tad bit sentimental. When I got the wrench back on December third, I wondered about it. Who did it belong to, the surgeon or the hospital? Had anyone used it before me? If so, why did the need it? How long had they needed it for? Did a wrench come standard with every external fixator sold like every happy meal comes with a toy? Who had wrapped tape, the colour of skin, around it? Why? A lot of trivial questions, but ones I asked myself none the less.
Now that it is gone, I look at my bookcase and see an empty place on a shelf. The wrench is no longer mine. Perhaps it is back in the kit it came from or somewhere in my surgeon's office. I look at that spot on the shelf and wonder who will get to use it next. Will they ask the same questions I did? Will they wonder who put the tape on it and why? Will they have the same hopes as I did - that they could successfully regrow their bones or straighten out a deformity? Where they wondering about the person (me) who had it before them?
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