FROM FALL TO RISE: MY JOURNEY THROUGH A FEMUR FRACTURE

 

FROM FALL TO RISE: MY JOURNEY THROUGH A FEMUR FRACTURE

 

JUST ONE STEP!!!

Four years ago, a single step down the stairs changed my life.

That one step left me bedridden.

It made me immobile.

It compelled me to view life through an entirely different lens.

It made me dependent.

It plunged me into emotional depression.

And now, that single step plays on an endless loop in my mind: “What if… what if… what if…” 

THE FALL:

The date was 5^th April 2022 (Tuesday) and the time was 10:05 AM.

It started like any other morning—I was heading out for work.

But a simple, ordinary step down the stairs turned into anything but ordinary, ending in a femur fracture that changed everything in an instant.

One moment I was moving normally. The next moment, I heard a sharp crack and felt an intense, overwhelming pain shoot through my thigh. It was unlike anything I had experienced before—severe, throbbing, and impossible to ignore.

My leg immediately swelled, bruised badly, and I could not even stand. The injured leg looked slightly shorter and turned outward. I knew something was seriously wrong.

Yet even in that moment, the true gravity of a femur fracture was beyond my understanding.

It was just a step.
Until it was not to be.

THE BLUR:

The ambulance ride to the hospital was a blur of pain.

I was accompanied by my wife and a neighbour.

Upon reaching the emergency section, we explained to the medical team what had happened.

For a few minutes, the team discussed the situation before prescribing an X-ray.

After the X-ray was taken, the emergency doctor informed us that a trauma specialist would be coming to see me.

Since it might take some time, my neighbour left, asking us to update him after the specialist’s visit.

All the while, I lay on the stretcher, unable to move even a bit.

 

THE CONFIRMATION:

Around 1:30 PM, the trauma specialist arrived, X-ray in hand.

He showed us the images and confirmed it: a femur fracture—my left thigh bone, one of the strongest and longest bones in the body, was broken. The doctor explained that femur fractures almost always require surgery because the bone is under constant stress from muscles and body weight.

The next half hour was the toughest listening I had ever done. The specialist explained the procedure—ORIF (Open Reduction Internal Fixation) surgery—along with other medical terms, and numerous “ifs” and “buts.”

The X-ray had been taken from a top view, showing both thighs. Seeing my fractured thigh alongside the normal one sent chills down my spine—it was far more unsettling than seeing the fracture alone.

My wife and I were left alone to decide on the next course of action. I looked at her face, and she looked at mine. Without any conscious intervention, tears began to roll down our cheeks.

The first thing I said was to call my brother and mother. Over four hours had passed since the accident, but until this moment, no calls had been made.

THE BLANK:

My wife called my brother, but when he didn’t respond, she called my mother.

As soon as their conversation began, I completely went blank. I could hear them speaking, but it all seemed to go over my head.

Until this point, I had been able to process the sequence of events, but now I realized I was totally unresponsive—lost, as if my body and mind had disconnected.

After the conversation ended, my wife said they would start heading to us immediately.

As the afternoon passed, we had our lunch right there in the emergency section.

Afterward, my wife called our neighbour, a dental doctor, to update him about the discussion with the trauma specialist.

He asked to check until what time the doctor would be available so he could come by.
Even a few hours felt like an eternity. 

By evening, reality had finally settled in. The question was no longer what had happened, but what we would do next.

THE DECISION:

Around 5 PM, my wife and neighbor met the doctor in a private room.

They had a lengthy discussion—about 30 to 40 minutes—which set the course for the next steps.

The conversation covered the procedure, and how the surgery would improve my condition.

They also discussed the alternative: what if I did not go under the knife… what if… what if… what if…

Finally, the decision was made: I would undergo surgery—the ORIF procedure—scheduled for the next day.

With that, the hospital formalities began: transitioning me from emergency to in-patient status with corporate insurance. I downloaded the necessary soft copies and passed them to my wife to complete the process.

I knew the administrative process had kicked in when I was taken for a CT scan. After being in the same position on a stretcher for nearly seven to eight hours, the moment of being lifted onto the CT table sent a surge of excruciating, overwhelming pain tearing through me—and all hell broke loose.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel that moment and hear myself screaming.

After the CT scan, being lifted back onto the stretcher repeated the pain—and the screams.

As I was wheeled back into the emergency department, I saw my wife standing at the reception with a file in her hand. She confirmed my admission as an in-patient and that we had been assigned room number 4025.

 

ROOM 4025:

After some time, we were taken to our assigned room in a large elevator that could also accommodate a stretcher. As we were settling in, the floor attendant stopped by, asked if we needed anything, and shared their location on the floor along with an extension number for assistance.

My wife made a couple of calls: one to confirm my brother’s location and another to check on our four-year-old daughter, who was staying at our neighbour’s house.

We had dinner in the room while waiting for our family to arrive.  My brother, his wife, and daughter, along with my mother, immediately set out by car after hearing the news. Around 10:30 PM, my brother arrived, having dropped the family at home.

He offered to stay with me and requested that my wife go home and rest, as she had had a particularly busy day. She agreed and handed over all the necessary information she had gathered during the day. Shortly after my brother arrived, I noticed a sense of serenity in my wife.

I was helped into a patient gown after completing my admission as an inpatient. Having spent most of the day lying down, I relied on adult diapers.  

With her motherly instinct taking over, my wife left to attend to our daughter.

 

THE NIGHT AND THE PREP:

A cloth was wrapped to my left foot to prevent any movement. As the shift changed, a new floor attendant came by and informed us that I needed to be ready for surgery the next day.

I was instructed to have milk before 6 AM and then remain on an empty stomach prior to the procedure. Additionally, an attendant came to shave the surgical site on my thigh. Following this, I was advised to rest in preparation for the big day ahead.

I rested on the patient bed, and my brother was beside me on the attendant bed. I drifted off for a short nap but abruptly woke up, uncertain if it was from pain, the events replaying in my mind, or the hospital surroundings. For a moment, I was disoriented, but then I heard my brother gently tell me to go back to sleep. The jolts that woke me persisted throughout the night and, as I can now attest, continued for the following several months. Sometimes, even during a brief 20–30 minute nap, I would awaken in intense fear.

Later, I was awakened by someone entering the room. A staff member brought a cup of hot milk and asked me to drink it immediately. My brother confirmed that it was around 5:45 AM. With a heavy heart—or, in this case, a heavy thigh—I opened my eyes for the day to begin. I drank the milk and tried to rest again, asking my brother to do the same, but somehow, I could not sleep.

After some time, my wife came into the room and asked my brother to go home. He left, refreshed himself, and later returned. Around 11:30 AM, the orthopaedic surgeon we had previously met entered the room. He greeted me, “Kranthi, how are you feeling? Yesterday, you were extremely traumatized.” He confirmed that I would be undergoing surgery that day and encouraged me to be brave, assuring me that everything would be fine. He also reiterated the earlier discussions to my brother for clarity and confirmation.

 

THE SURGERY:

As we waited for the ORIF surgery, we received a call that the staff was on their way to take me to the surgery floor. Shortly afterward, we arrived on the surgery floor and entered the OT area. With my wife and brother by my side, I watched my brother complete the required formalities, signing the necessary forms before we could proceed. Then, I was handed over to the surgical team in the next area, where everyone was clad in fully sanitized PPE kits.

I noticed that the time was approximately 2:30 PM. The area contained several operating theatres, each conducting different surgeries. The surgeon arrived and, while waiting for an available theatre, completed the necessary paperwork. In the meantime, a team member asked if I could lift my back, and I replied that I could not. They gently supported me and began administering spinal anaesthesia. I could hear them mention L3, L4, and L5.

At around 3:00 PM, I was taken into a fully prepared operating theatre, and the surgery began. The procedure lasted approximately five hours. I cannot fully recall the entire duration, but I remember fragments during brief moments when I was conscious.

My lower abdomen was covered with a green surgical cloth, preventing me from seeing anything below my waist. Throughout the procedure, I was given both general and spinal anaesthesia, along with other essential fluids. Various monitoring devices were attached to my body to continuously track my vital signs.

Whenever I was conscious, I could hear my surgeon and the medical team talking. I am not exactly sure how many people were present, but there seemed to be quite a few, each carrying out their respective duties. I distinctly remember one person sitting beside me on a stool throughout the procedure. In addition to the monitoring systems, he appeared to be closely observing my condition and coordinating with the team as needed.

In those brief moments, my thoughts kept returning to my family—and, of course, to the Almighty. At one point, I heard someone ask for a status update. I remember thinking it might be a senior doctor or HOD checking in—like an external invigilator during an exam.

My surgeon replied calmly that everything looked good: my blood pressure and all vitals were stable, and blood loss was minimal. He also mentioned that two units of blood were available and would be sent back to the blood bank if not needed. The conversation lasted only a few seconds, but hearing it reassured me deeply.

Even under anaesthesia, my lower abdomen felt as if it were being jostled around, like the constant jolts of a train ride. I later learned that this sensation was caused by the ORIF procedure itself. The next time I regained consciousness, it felt like a war zone. Everyone was moving quickly, and I could hear my surgeon speaking—probably to the invigilator, explaining that my blood pressure had dropped below 60.

But they were already on top of it: IV fluids were flowing, a blood transfusion was underway, and slowly, the situation was brought under control.

Certainly, the situation was under control—otherwise, I would not have regained consciousness. The person sitting beside me asked if I felt any nausea and explained, almost reassuringly, that a drop in blood pressure could cause vomiting as a side effect.

I nodded, and he brought a vessel close to my mouth, saying, “Only if you feel like it, not because I asked.” A very small amount of white liquid came out, while the milk I had in the morning remained in my stomach.

When I was unconscious, I felt as if I were in a completely different world; upon regaining consciousness, I could only catch fragments of what was happening for a few fleeting seconds. Perhaps because I am a movie buff—especially of Telugu films—I felt as if I had knocked on the Almighty’s door and been sent back.

At that moment, I had no sense of time or duration, only the chills from being in the air-conditioned OT. My body was shivering so much that someone noticed and quickly covered me.

So, by the grace of God, the prayers of my family, and the support of the medical team, the surgery was successful. I could hear the team congratulating each other as they flushed out my stomach.

I was being prepared to be moved to the ICU for a few hours of observation before being transferred to my room. As I was being moved, I noticed the time: a quarter past eight in the night (8:15 PM).

The procedure had taken about five hours, but as you can tell, I only retain a few fragmented moments from it.

 THE POST SURGERY:

Unlike me, my wife and brother had to endure all five hours waiting outside the OT area. In the days that followed, they shared their experience of those long, tense hours. With multiple procedures happening simultaneously, there were many relatives waiting outside. As time passed, some came and went, completing their own waits, leaving my wife and brother looking at each other in quiet anticipation.

They finally heard about the success of the surgery from my doctor around 7:45 PM. He reassured my wife, “Your husband is all good—just a dot here and there and a few scratches.”

Even months later, whenever my wife looked at the surgical site on my body, she would wonder why the doctor had said, “just a dot here and there.” I believe his words were appropriate at the time. After five long hours of the procedure, he would not have shared every single detail with already worried family members. My wife was allowed to meet me for a few minutes in the ICU hall at 8:30 PM. Since my brother was there, I asked her to go home and rest. I still had the IV lines in my hand for fluids, medications, and the one unit of blood transfusion.

They inserted a titanium rod down the centre of my femur, securing it with screws at the top and bottom to realign and stabilize the bone while it heals. It was not just a simple fracture; the bone had multiple fragments, which were brought together using wires. This was the ORIF surgical procedure I had undergone.

My brother was in the room, and after a few hours, he received a call from the ICU informing him that I was being transferred to my room, as the observation period had ended.

Before being moved, I was given some medication in the ICU, and the blood unit was removed—most of it had remained unused. I was then transferred to my room, and the staff informed my brother about the scheduled checks every few hours, requesting that he keep the door unlocked.

When I woke up, my leg was bandaged and elevated. The initial post-op pain was well-managed with medication, but over time, the constant pain became harder to bear —mostly lying in bed, dealing with swelling, and adjusting to the reality of limited mobility. The first few days were the hardest.

Even the simplest movements—turning in bed or making it to the bathroom—felt like challenges I could not manage alone. I began physical therapy early, still in the hospital: gentle, deliberate exercises designed to prevent stiffness and reduce the risk of blood clots.

THE DISCHARGE:

The following three days passed in a hazy blur, a period in the hospital devoted to post-surgery care. My world had shrunk to the four walls of my hospital room, and the stark reality of my dependence began to settle in.

On the first morning after surgery, before my surgeon arrived, another doctor came in for a review. Hearing his voice, I recognized him as the one who had been checking on me during surgery. Sure enough, he was the head of the orthopaedic department.

He asked how I was feeling and then told me to try moving the toes of my left foot and my fingers. To my surprise, I managed it with ease — and even my back could move. It felt reassuring. He encouraged me to keep repeating these movements at regular intervals before leaving.

After some time, as I continued repeating those movements, stiffness and pain began to return. This time, I could not move my back at all. I realized that earlier it had felt easy only because the medication had masked the pain. When my surgeon came in for a review, I asked him about it.

He reassured me that recovery would take time and emphasized that I needed to take things one step at a time. He also inquired about the post-surgery X-ray, which ideally should have been done before I was moved to my room—something that would have spared me much of the pain and difficulty. Instead, I had to endure it fully conscious, feeling every bit of discomfort.

He called in one of the hospital’s physiotherapists and explained the exercises I needed to do, noting them down in my file. A nutritionist also came in, asked about my eating habits, and suggested what I should be taking over the next few weeks.

The main goal for everyone was to ensure that the surgical area healed without any infection. Whenever a member of the medical team visited, my brother and wife had their own set of questions and clarifications, eager to understand every detail.

By the end of the first day after surgery, one of my surgeon’s assistants stopped by with some reassuring news—the post-surgery X-ray looked good. The following day, the rest of my blood reports arrived, emphasizing the importance of closely monitoring my diet and staying consistent with physiotherapy.

On Tuesday, when my femur fracture occurred, I was on my way to work. Management visits had been scheduled over the following three days. That evening, my manager called to check on my absence, and my wife explained what had happened. A few days later, on Friday, my manager came by in person and called my number to confirm hospital location and room number with my wife.

She could see the gravity of the situation and understood it. While she was there, the physiotherapist came by, helped me with my walker, demonstrated a few exercises, and then left. My manager also departed, assuring me that the situation at work would be handled and that both the next-level management and the business users I work with would be informed.

On Saturday, around 11 p.m., following my review with the surgeon, my discharge was approved. This set the insurance process in motion with the accounts department, which forwarded all the required documents to my insurer.

My brother mostly tracked the progress, and after lunch, we received a call confirming that the insurance had been approved and that we could collect the documents.

After a five-day stay in the hospital, I was discharged and brought home by ambulance, using crutches. The doctors gave strict instructions for non-weight-bearing on my left leg for the first few weeks. This meant I had to rely entirely on my right leg and the walker whenever I moved in and out of bed. My family helped me reach the first floor of our building using a walker and the lift. I was welcomed into our home with a heartfelt haarathi (aarti) by my mother and sister-in-law.

I was overjoyed to be back home, especially after the moments during those five days when I had feared I might never return. I suppose this mix of relief and emotion was partly due to the gravity of the situation—and partly me being dramatic.

 

RELEARNING LIFE: A GRUELING RECOVERY:

Back home, the real marathon began. I was not just recovering; I was relearning one of the most basic human functions: walking. In the initial stages, the focus was on managing pain, reducing swelling through ice and elevation, and maintaining basic mobility. From the ground up, I had to start over, initially navigating my home with a walker and carefully avoiding any weight on my operated left leg.

Those days were profoundly draining, both physically and emotionally. Countless sleepless nights and restless days became the new normal, punctuated by frequent, fitful naps that offered little rest.

My mind was a whirlwind of “what ifs”—what if I had not taken that step? What if my life would never be the same? Dependence, depression, and being emotionally and physically drained became constant companions during early recovery, making even the simplest tasks feel monumental.

My medication regimen was intense—more than 20 tablets daily, including various antibiotics and multivitamins, along with a nasal spray to help boost calcium levels.

But amidst the despair, there was progress, painstakingly slow yet steady. Daily physiotherapy sessions became my new routine, stretching over four intensive months. It started with the simplest of movements, wiggling my toes, gradually progressing to more complex exercises that slowly coaxed my leg back to life.

The physiotherapist was not just a guide but a beacon of hope, pushing me forward even when my spirit flagged. In my daughter’s words, he would say, “Em parledhu, sir. Em parledhu. Gattiga nokandi”—meaning, “Nothing to worry about, press harder.”

Initially, we visited the hospital every week for check-ups and to have the surgical area carefully redressed. X-rays were taken from multiple angles to monitor the healing progress. After two weeks, the bandages were removed, and the surgical stitches were taken out.

Recovery has been a gradual climb: progressing from toe-touching to partial weight-bearing. The instructions were clear—only 20% of my weight on my left foot, a constant mental calculation with every step. Each small achievement was a testament to perseverance, proving that I could accomplish things on my own, little by little. Over time, weekly hospital reviews shifted to biweekly, and then to monthly check-ups.

As weeks turned into months, weight-bearing on my foot gradually increased—from 20% to 50%. I transitioned from the four-legged walker to a walking stick, a tangible symbol of newfound, albeit partial, freedom.

Physical therapy, both on my own and with the support of my family, became a daily routine—folding and strengthening exercises, balance work, and, eventually, walking without aids. Progress felt slow at times, but small milestones—like standing longer or taking steps independently—kept me motivated. I focused on building endurance, regaining a full range of motion, and gradually returning to normal activities.

Some days, my thigh ached with weather changes or after overdoing it, not 100% but overall, my strength steadily returned.

A femur fracture tests your patience and resilience like nothing else. The body, however, is remarkable at healing when supported by proper medical care, adequate rest, balanced nutrition—including protein and multivitamins—and consistent physiotherapy. The titanium hardware does its job, and the doctors continue to monitor bone union through regular follow-ups.

By October 2022, eight months after the fracture, I was walking with only a minimal limp and had returned to light daily activities. There were still reminders—a scar on my thigh, occasional stiffness, and some swelling—but I was deeply grateful for the progress I had made.

A NEW PERSPECTIVE ON LIFE:

This unforeseen detour in my life did more than affect my body; it profoundly reshaped my perspective. My personal, physical, and professional life were all undeniably affected, and my priorities shifted.

Looking back, I realize this fracture broke more than just a bone—it shook my confidence, disrupted my routine, and at times, tested my spirit. Yet, it also gave me something greater: resilience. I discovered patience, because healing cannot be rushed. I found gratitude, because without my family, friends, and doctors, recovery would not have been possible. Most importantly, I discovered my strength—because with every painful step, I proved to myself that I am capable of more than I ever believed.

This experience changed me—it taught me to cherish life’s simplest moments and to hold on to hope, even in the hardest times. Four years later, every step I take is no longer ordinary—it is a reminder of resilience.

The fast pace of my pre-fracture life slowed to a crawl, allowing space for reflection. It was during this challenging period that the true value of my family shone brightest. Their unwavering support, patience, and presence through every setback and small victory became my bedrock. With the steadfast support of my family, friends, and medical team, I did not just get through it—I emerged stronger on the other side.

Thanks to my wife, who stood beside me when I could not stand on my own.

Thanks to my mother for being with me through every physiotherapy session and watching me go through the pain.

Thanks to my brother, who took care of everything—hospital formalities, purchases, and more—for two weeks, putting his own life on hold.

Thanks to my sister-in-law for constantly reminding me, “Gattiga tinnali, gattiga tinnali!”—to eat well and stay strong.

Thanks to my neighbours for standing by us and offering support when we needed it most.

Thank you to my doctors, physiotherapist, and the entire medical team who made this journey bearable.