I’ve been sentenced to a six-month journey with a stage IV ischial pressure sore, but I don’t want to do the time.
My plastic surgeon, Dr. B, is the head honcho of the state’s plastic surgery association, respected, pleasant, but humorless. “I’ve read over all your information and chart notes twice. I know your situation and have a good idea what’s needed.” It seems he’d rather not hear my version of how my Stage I pressure sore suddenly exploded to a stage IV subdermal wound. He’s all business, and I’m OK with it.
One week after coming home to bed confinement following my debridement/biopsy, Dr. B’s scheduler calls to tell me my flap operation will happen in nine weeks. “Nine weeks?!”