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Here She Comes, Just A-Walkin', er... Hobblin' Down The Street

7/18/2015

Summer Of Cast is winding down. Today, I ventured out of the house without the crutches. Yay me!

The ankle still feels pretty sore and stiff, and due to something called Carsel Tunnel Syndrome, my heel feels like I’m constantly walking on a pebble.

I’ll take it.

Being housebound and hobbled since Memorial Day has taken a toll on my mental status (if you don’t believe me, just ask my husband). My exposure to human companionship since Memorial Day has been limited to the people at drive through windows (seen from the passenger side), two family visits, doctor appointments and one wonderful lunch outing with a dear friend. Let’s just say I’ve been extra chatty at dinner - the exact time my husband needs time to decompress for the day.

So today’s outing to the doctor and an-honest-to-goodness sit down restaurant was a refreshing change. I never remembered to ask for the temporary handicap sticker, so my husband dropped me by the door and I inched my way up the sloping sidewalk and into the vestibule where they had benches.

Rough terrain has a brand new meaning when you are dealing with unsteady ankles and feet. A six-inch curb, cobblestones, gravel, loose dirt – all menacing obstacles just waiting to send me back to my cast. The benches just on the other side of the door were a welcome sight. In my normal state, I breeze by these little staging areas, usually filled with older women arranging shopping bags or new moms packing strollers, with hardly a glance. Today, I have a newfound appreciation.

Once hubby arrived and we started down the long hallway, he offered his arm to help me over the tiled floor. I couldn’t help but feel a bit self-conscious. Don’t we all want to be viewed as young, healthy and strong? Women my age always seem to be teetering on the edge of that black hole I call “middle aged invisibility”. That awful threshold when you graduate from turning heads as you walk by to people looking right through you as if you don’t exist.

I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the shop windows we passed. It was just a pale shadow, one very tall man helping along a short, shuffling woman. I sighed and looked up at Chuck.

“Oh my gosh – it’s happening. I’m suddenly that limping, slow, obstacle everyone has to go around. I’m becoming that old wom…”

We both veered a little at this point as we came face to face with an older woman coming around the bend in the hallway. She was hobbling slightly with a gimpy leg and carting several shopping bags on her right arm. And in her left hand, she had a cane.

But she wasn’t shuffling along. She was in a hurry and had her eyes firmly set on the door. We were in her way and we did that little bypass “dance” to pass in the hall. It stopped my words and I hoped she hadn’t heard my lament. My husband and I exchanged a quick glance as she passed and we waited until the vestibule doors slid shut before we let out a little giggle.

This woman? Hobbled like me (!), shorter, a little heavier, my senior by quite a few years. She wasn’t leaning on her husband’s arm. She wasn’t casting a worried glance in the shop window. She wasn’t even leaning on her cane. She was brandishing it like a baton – waving it in the air like a Jedi knight, carrying it like a scepter, not a burden. Not invisible. Strong. Fierce.

Thanks Karma. I needed that.

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“Cast Away” Actually Means You Don’t Get Off The Island

7/11/2015

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Getting the cast off your ankle doesn’t always mean you can now walk. Ugh.

Six weeks of healing an ankle can do all kinds of damage to other parts of your body. Once I was free to start putting weight on my foot again, I find out that I…can’t.

Ouch.

Apparently swelling takes it’s toll on nerves and joints. – mine didn’t bother to sync calendars with my ankle bone to make sure they all had this week blocked for my return to walking. So my #SummerOfCast continues for a while longer, without the cast.

I did have a breakthrough moment this week, kinda like that scene with Tom Hanks in Cast Away when he made fire for the first time. I was able to get in the bathtub without assistance. This was definitely a breakthrough and also a little sad (read my “Love Is A Hot Bath” post if you want to know why).

I’m looking forward to the end of this “alternative summer” journey. While I’m not ready to call it finished yet - don’t want Karma to come knocking on my door - I can feel the finish line getting closer. I’m storing up little nuggets of knowledge that might serve me well on days sans cast.

You can’t cross a wet floor on crutches. Nope.

Love is …having a husband who will reach out and fix your “croppy” when you are wearing a sundress while on crutches.

Waving a crutch at a barking dog is no longer an effective threat after six weeks. Once they learn you can’t throw/won’t throw it, it’s over. However, throwing dog food is a sure thing to get their attention.

Once you are downstairs, anything left upstairs will stay upstairs unless you need it to breathe.

I can go six weeks without buying anything. No clothes, no shoes, no beauty products. Imagine the money I can save if I keep this up. Expect Target to show a loss for this quarter.

It is impossible to make up the bed on crutches.

My husband can make up our bed like a fancy hotel. He may regret showing me that he has that skill.

Six weeks without cooking or cleaning is kinda nice, even if it does make me feel guilty.

Blessings should be counted, no matter how small they are. My behind may be spreading but my arms are getting incredibly strong.

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Love Is A Hot Bath

7/4/2015

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People either love baths or they hate ‘em. A hot bath to me is a little piece of heaven. I love almost everything about it – warm (hot!) water, refreshing scrubs, wonderfully scented soaps and body washes, fluffy towels. Most of all, it is a little bit of “me” time I can look forward to that caps off my day.

So spending the first few weeks of Summer of Cast without my nightly bath was not fun. Sponge baths and quick showers with a cast bag were not met with the same amount of enthusiasm, especially since I got the bathroom incredibly wet and slippery every time, making more work for my sweet hubby.

We both thought that the walking booth I got ten days ago would return our nightly routine to normal. That was before my first bath attempt. Even though it is called a “walking cast”, I was given explicit instructions NOT to walk on it, since my ankle break had not yet healed. Even so, I hobbled between the bathroom counter and a chair placed by the bathtub, trying to prepare for my return to the tub.

And I couldn’t get in.

Being one legged, slightly off balance on the edge of a tall oval tub doesn’t exactly make you feel secure. I have no handrails, nothing even remotely sturdy surrounding my tub. My tub slants nicely so you can recline, but it also means that when you’re injured, you can slip faster down the incline and crash into the side of the tub near the glass shower.

Hubby had to be called back into action. For me, having to ask for help is similar to going to the dentist – I’d rather suffer through the pain. But, dang it, I wanted that bath. So every night, my sweet hubby helps me get out of my clothes, the brace, the walking boot, and he hands me gently into the bath.

I would expect most men to then go about their business and wait for the call to come reverse the process of hauling their woman out of the tub. At least that’s what I expected the first night.

Not my sweetie. He turns down my bed, gets me some water and retrieves a towel, sometimes fresh from the dryer.

And then he sits down by the tub and we talk about our day.

It is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever encountered in my life. He isn’t preoccupied with going back to his video game, and he doesn’t rush me through my warm bath. We laugh and talk – mostly about nothing. Sometimes about how lucky we are to have each other. And sometimes, we have conversations that no one else in the world would understand, like this past Wednesday.

I was telling him about a conference call I had that day with a vendor in London whose name was Alastair Digby (how English is that?). And how, all through the call, I couldn't help but sing the guy’s name to myself, always to the tune of the Beatles “Eleanor Rigby”.

So we both finished out my bath that night talking to each other in an English accent – or maybe it would be best to call it “our” version of an English accent, complete with subtle Texas twang. My husband does it so much better than me – he sounds exactly like the cartoon Wallace and Grommett, if you’ve ever heard of that one. I remarked that ”Perchance one could relieve the rubbish pail of its contents?”

He turned around to look at our overflowing bath trash can and gave me a sideways glance “no, mum, I don’t believe one would like to partake in that”. But I persisted, since the last thing I placed in there was a shampoo bottle and the can was so full the lid was standing up a good two inches above the rim – yuck.

He walked over and ever so gently tipped up the trash lid with his toe. Unfortunately, when he brought his foot back, a long piece of toilet paper was now stuck to the bottom of his bare foot and trailed out over the floor. He didn’t break from the English accent.

“Now, that was exactly what we had wished would NOT happen, wasn’t it”?

He leaned over and grabbed some fresh paper off the roll, then scooped the offending paper off his foot, all without losing his balance or putting his foot down.

“There now, all chipper again. Right. Are you ready to get out of the bath, my love?”

My cup (and my heart) runneth over.

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Unabashed redhead learning how to reinvent herself to keep up in this world. How in the world did you find me here? As long as you dropped by, you might as well stay awhile.

TAMTALKS

Here She Comes, Just A-Walkin', er... Hobblin' Down The Street

“Cast Away” Actually Means You Don’t Get Off The Island

Love Is A Hot Bath

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