My left ankle lies propped before me in its kelly-green cast — mute but vivid testimony to changes in my life. And not just to changes, but to decisions (for better or worse), to patience (or lack thereof), to the kindness of friends and strangers, of family and coworkers. To tears of pain and frustration and the accompanying shame of being weak. To ice in a parking lot and a split-second spin-and-fall that has left me hopping on a walker, hurling myself into a wheelchair, and hoping for better days.
It happened on January 31st, when I'd gone to buy a get-well card but was stopped cold in my tracks within yards of the drugstore's entrance. Now I'm the one receiving get-well wishes as I make my halting way through what seems an endless convalescence. "You've had a bad injury — three breaks and one of the worst dislocations I've had to repair," my doctor has told me more than once. "You've got to give it time and rest to heal."
So I seek a state of rest – though it's shattered now and then by my fury at the mega-pharma-retailer who couldn't be bothered to put salt on the ice, or even toss some kitty litter in the area closest to the store. Other times I second-guess myself for going out that Sunday afternoon. But the sun was shining, the streets were clear, and I've always disdained those who let weather rule their lives.
Rather than dwell on anger or questionable decisions, here I reflect on life since "the fall" — the bad, the good, the silly, the sublime.
Collateral damage: The first few days I used crutches to get around — till early one morning, with a great clatter of metal, I fell to the tile of the bathroom floor, landing squarely on my right knee. Holy ouch. So I switched to a walker — not as teeter-tottery as the cursed crutches — but, oh, how that clunker abuses my shoulders. Now, not only does my ankle hurt — the cast feels like a two-ton anvil — but other joints scream for mercy.
Call me vain and stubborn: I have fought using a wheelchair, claiming the walker helps build my strength. But when my husband insisted it would give my body a break (could he be weary of my groans and grumblings?!), I relented. And yes, the wheelchair has its virtues. But oh, the paint I've knocked from doorways and the oaths I've uttered trying to navigate corners. Through all this are bright spots to balance the bad, such as . . .
Food and the folks who bring it: Home-cooked meals, store-bought meals, veggies from last year's garden, chocolate in every luscious form. And all in such generous portions, the meals sometimes stretch over several days. Smiling faces, newsy chitchat, tender concern — I think of friends in our kitchen easing my husband's cooking duties and tears spring to my eyes.
Tears, silly tears: Crying comes easily to me these days. Tears of gratitude are one thing, but others? You be the judge. For comfort's sake, I've worn knock-around clothes since my accident. But one morning I opened my closet and saw — really saw for the first time in weeks — my pretty winter jackets and sweaters, and I wept for the outfits hanging there. They represent a life I've had to put on hold — getting up and dressing for a job I love; meeting friends for lunch or happy hour or dinner and a play; sitting with my husband in a restaurant where he doesn't have to wait on me. Getting in the car without stretching out in the backseat with my foot propped against the window. Or simply moving from point A to B without having to lie down later from pure exhaustion.
Lesson learned: No, I won't stay home the next time an overwrought weathercaster predicts snow or ice. Yes, I'll be more selective in deciding what must be done and what can wait. But the lesson I've taken most to heart is this: Never take anything or anyone for granted. Not the wonder of walking on both feet. Not the man who cheerfully helps me through each day. Not the family and friends whose food, flowers, cards, emails, books, and visits keep me going. Not the knowledge that others have far more serious afflictions than I do, and could benefit from my compassion.
Memories to cherish: As time passes, I may forget the pain, impatience, and weariness of these days. But some memories will certainly stay with me — the afternoon sunlight filling my living room and my heart with pleasure, the sound of my husband humming in the kitchen, the sweetness of one cat nestled next to me while the other leisurely bathes himself in a nearby chair. When life returns to normal and I'm facing deadlines and knotty problems, I'll slow down and appreciate that sunlight and sweetness — the ineffable beauty of everyday moments. M
