Quick update from the derelict ankle chronicles: the skin graft got moved up.

Originally scheduled for February 12th—two days before my birthday, because my body loves dramatic timing. Now it’s happening this Thursday.

I’ll give you a second to process that, because I’m still processing it myself.

The reason is actually good news: my ankle has healed enough. The Integra did its job faster than expected. My cells apparently decided to overachieve for once in their lives, and the wound is ready for the next step ahead of schedule.

I don’t… I don’t know what to do with good news from my ankle. We don’t have that kind of relationship. The derelict ankle is supposed to cause problems, not solve them. It feels like a trap. Like my ankle is luring me into a false sense of security before it stages another rebellion.

But I’m trying to trust it. The doctors seem pleased. The wound looks good. The Integra integrated. Everything is happening the way it’s supposed to happen, which is genuinely disorienting after months of nothing going the way it was supposed to go.

So Thursday it is. Sarah’s on nurse duty, which means I’ll be in good hands for recovery. She’s been the MVP of this entire saga—driving me to appointments, managing wound care, keeping our household running while I’ve been couch-bound. I don’t deserve her, but I’m not giving her back.

I’m nervous, obviously. Surgery is surgery. But mostly I’m relieved. We’re almost at the end of this. Assuming the graft takes—and I’m going to assume it does, because I’m tired of bracing for disaster—I’ll have a fully-skinned ankle again. The bar was always low. The bar was always just “please have skin.” And we’re about to clear it.

More updates post-surgery, assuming I remember anything through the anesthesia fog.

Stay healthy out there. And if your body decides to cooperate for once, try not to question it too hard.