Stardate 11635.2

Captain's Log: Stardate 11635.2
It has been, by far, the craziest and most terrifying couple of weeks of my life. Some time ago, I ever so slightly scraped my leg stepping off a ladder while installing a custom closet at Starfleet Headquarters (our home). Thinking nothing of it and using the standard male treatment scenario of "rub dirt in it and walk it off like a man", I went on a business trip to Arizona while my leg got redder and redder.

Ignorance is bliss. But it can also cause you to lose a leg. That was Lesson One. And no, Lesson Two is not "no good can come from coming out of the closet."

My wife finally saw the leg and demanded I go to the hospital. "Demanded" may be too light a word in this case. Maybe "commanded" with the hint of, if I did not obey, wrath, hellfire and centuries of suffering. She did it right, cause it worked, and probably saved my life because of it.

Your wife is always right. Even when you think she's wrong. That was Lesson Two.

The emergency room was close to empty with both the nurse and the on-call doctor saying that portion of my leg looked angry. Apparently it had grown so much that it not only achieved consciousness, but also had emotions.

In practically no time at all, we were talking about being admitted and emergency surgery. And, for a moment, I looked back at ignorance with fond memories. But there was no going back. Terror set in.

After a MRI, the surgery was set and I had a choice: numb me from the waist down or take a general. I think they understood my position when I said, "Knock me the fuck out!"

Luckily (and I use that term lightly - nothing feels lucky about this experience) the infection only got to the skin and the fascia -- and did not get into my muscle, bones or bloodstream. They took a chunk out of my leg leaving a 4 x 8 x 1.2cm hole. I look like the victim of a shark attack, and no, I don't mean Robert Herjavec or Kevin 'Mr. Wonderful' O'Leary.

This was all followed by a week of poking and prodding, along with painful dressing changes, with intermittent hours of boredom, self pity and constant fear of what was to happen next. I've found the seventh layer of hell. It's the fifth floor of Phelps Memorial Hospital.

The one good moment -- hearing someone page "Dr. McCoy, please call extension 3831." Yes, it's true. My wife heard it too.


That's my father visiting, paying close attention to his iPhone -- as am I. Apparently, when I'm not pinching (or not calling my sister) there's not much to say to each other :-)

Any thoughts or dreams of racing this year are lost now until, at the earliest, mid season (but most likely later.) A real shame too, especially after receiving the nicest invitation ever to run tactics and trim on board Mark Lassar's Catalina 34 "New Freedom". I'll be there Mark. As soon as I can, I'll be there.

I'm finally back at home and back at work, eating tons of protein and getting daily dressing changes done so incredibly well by Ellen that she could have a medical degree, and all with the best bedside manner to put every employee at Phelps to shame. (One nurse actually said "You're in a hospital. There will be pain. It's going to hurt. Deal with it." Bitch.)

It'll be a long road to recovery with wound care center visits and pills galore. But, thanks to my wife Ellen, I will be back.