Damn My Quadriceps, I’m Walking (Sort Of) Home. Through the Park, Even

A technical diagram illustrating where the quadriceps tendon rupture occurred. Well it’s been a few days since I whined about my torn quadriceps tendon, so I figured I’d remedy that. Saturday, Feb. 25 – heh, just realized it’s a leap year – will be nine weeks to the day I had my surgery on Christmas Eve. I had a therapy appointment today – the physical kind, not the head-shrinking kind – and I had hoped in the back of my mind that today might be the day that I could actually spin on the stationary bike.

I don’t know whether or not it’s because I am a once and future avid cyclist, or what, but that is some sort of milestone for me, psychologically. I can walk now, sort of. I don’t use my crutch around the apartment except when I get in and out of the shower, and then it’s just a matter of being safe. I really can’t walk with a normal gate yet – my quadriceps muscle and the related muscles, aductors, abductors and so forth, along with my calf continue to get stronger, but they ain’t there yet — but I can walk unaided for short distances. Out in the real world though, I generally use the crutch, but as little as possible in terms of weight bearing.

But for the past two weeks, in spite of doing my therapeutic exercises with a near religious monomania, for the second week in a row, I couldn’t bend my leg beyond 100 degrees. You need to be able to bend it about 110- to about 120-degrees to spin on a bike. Based on others’ experiences with recovering from a quadriceps tendon rupture, most people don’t get beyond 100 degrees until they are into their third month of recovery – I’ve just begun mine, so I guess I shouldn’t be pissing and moaning.

But still.

I have dreams about running and riding my bike. And it’s like well … it’s like dreaming about sex. It’s so intense and so real and so amazing and then, well, then I wake up. And I look at my leg and think, unlike a sex dream, I can’t do anything about this except be patient.

Once more: Sucks, this.

Strutting: as much as one can with a quadriceps tendon rupture and a crutch

On the plus side, I can actually walk around when I run errands nearby, instead of having to take taxis three blocks. The xe-om drivers cry out “Motorbike you?! Motorbike you?!” But I shake my head and say “không cảm ơn” and strut on by – as much as a guy with a crutch and a mild limp can strut. Even in this manner it still feels good to walk. Sometimes I over do it and by the end of the day my leg is more swollen and sore than perhaps it should be, but to hell with it.

I’m walking, so take that, Universe. Put that in your metaphorical pipe and suck on it.

And further to the plus side, I was walking home early this evening through a nearby park here in Ho Chi Minh City, née Sai Gon, when someone approached me and struck up a conversation. I was a little leery and guarded at first, as I live on the edge of the backpacker ghetto, and for every time a nice Vietnamese person who just wants to be sociable and practice a bit of English, there is someone on the make looking to earn a quick buck one way or another.

For example, the first time I walked through the park after my surgery, about two weeks or so after, I was still in the big-blue straight-leg brace, using both crutches, and my knee was still watermelon-sized and discolored. Sure enough, a young lady came up and launched into the “Handsome man where you go?” routine. “You wan’ massa? Boom boom?”

I sighed, looked down at my leg, looked back at her and smiled sardonically. “Do I look like I’m in any condition for boom boom?”

To which she replied, without missing a beat, “It no problem. I get on top, ride like cow girl! I go wit you?”

Sigh. “Không cảm ơn.” That means “no thank you,” in case you hadn’t sussed that out by now.

Anyway, fortunately for me, tonight, this young man fell into the latter category – just curious, friendly and wanting to talk English. Once we got past the usual banter – “Where are you from? What happened/what did you do to your leg? Are you are on holiday?” questions, we had a nice talk as I walked home.

The conversation ranged from football (what the rest of the world calls football, and us Yanks call soccer, that is) – he was surprised a Yank knew anything about football, I think – to Thai culture vs. Vietnamese culture. He agreed that yes, if the American national team would play a more European/Central-South American style of football, we could probably win a World Cup. When I suggested we needed a British or European coach, he countered with a Brazilian or Mexican coach, to which I readily agreed that this would be as good if not better.

Before the football conversation started though, when he asked me how long I had lived in Viet Nam I had to explain that it was only four months this time, but that I had lived here before, both in HCMC and an hour north in sticks up in Bien Hoa (and I’m too lazy to conjure up the diacritical marks, so we’re doing to have to do without tonight)  with six months spent teaching in Thailand in between. I noted that I liked living in Thailand well enough, but that when it came to teaching English, I preferred Viet Nam for several reasons. He didn’t seem surprised by this and offered up the observation that Vietnamese were more friendly and open to foreign people than Thais, generally, with which I readily agreed.

But then he admitted the only place he had been to in Thailand was Pattaya. Then he said “Vietnam, we don’t have any place like Pattaya here.” I instantly thought “You’ve obviously never been to Vung Tau, young man,” but I kept my mouth shut. But then he added: “But Thai culture is much more open to that and accepting. Vietnam, it is too conservative for anything like that.” I agreed with that, as I think it is generally true – Vung Tau not withstanding.

But after we discussed Thai culture and football, we came to the point where we were headed separate ways; we exchanged names and I told him to keep an eye out for me in the park, as I often walk home that way – it’s a bit out of the way for me sometimes, depending on where I’m coming from, but if I’m coming from the backpacker ghetto, it’s the best way to avoid the touts, xe-om drivers and working girls on Pham Ngu Lao street.

This sort of thing happens all the time here in Sai Gon; it happened to a lesser extent up in Bien Hoa, where foreigners are still exceptionally rare and exotic.

Doogie Howser, making a thoughtful post on his electronic journal, long before the term blog would enter the popular lexicon.So yeah, that was a nice little counterbalance to lift my spirits after my therapy appointment this afternoon. Okay, I’m going to get all Doogie Howser here.

I guess in the larger scheme of things I don’t have much to complain about. I’m chasing dreams, living abroad in an exotic locale, and other than my Franken knee and teeth that are long over due for a trip to the dentist, I have my health. And my leg will eventually recover (I’m told) and I’ll get around to going to the dentist one of these days. So life is good.

And tomorrow when I feel like bitching about my leg maybe I’ll come back and read this post again.

One thought on “Damn My Quadriceps, I’m Walking (Sort Of) Home. Through the Park, Even”

Comments are closed.