Anyone who has ever had a foot, ankle or leg encased in some sort of cast will have stories to tell about how people react to them. The stares, the questions, the, um, tailgaters in the supermarket who almost run you over with their carts because you’re walking too slowly for them.
I sense, however, that some of my tales are unique.
Regular readers of this column will recall that I had surgery on my right foot at the end of September. It was a simple operation to correct a problem involving my big and second toes. Though straightforward, it did require me to minimize movement for two weeks while I was in a bandage and a stiff, ugly, post-op sandal. Then I graduated to a “walking cast” (think of the footwear of Star Wars’ Imperial Stormtroopers) for four more weeks.
Though the boot gave me more freedom to get about, I still couldn’t drive, since it was on my right foot. And, since the boot was awkward to maneuver, I would end each day achy and tired. I still had to elevate and ice. I definitely needed the full six weeks to recover fully.
So I was bemused when I was greeted with this phrase when I returned to work after two weeks off: “Another boot!”
Since I was the third person to be in “the boot” at the 7-12 school where I am headquartered as the K-12 librarian, nobody asked me how I was. They just commented on the proliferation of walking casts.
Now, in a facility serving 1,000 teenagers, there are likely to be half a dozen limping around in traditional casts, or “air casts,” at any given time. One year, there were two district-wide administrators hopping along as well. But three adults—it was unheard of.
The first was in her boot as school began. She’d had virtually the same surgery as me, and immediately offered to lend me her crutches. It was helpful to hear what she had to say about the healing process.
The second injured herself in the first month back. She got herself one of those “knee scooters,” which everyone got quite a kick out of. When I told people I was going to be out for awhile and why, they said, “You ought to get one of those scooters. Then you two could race!”
Not really, no.
So by the time I got back from sick leave, the boot was old news. I saw a freshman in one and pointed to my own, nodding sympathetically. “What happened?” I asked.
“I fell during cheerleading.”
Hmph. I didn’t even have a good story to tell.
Should someone actually ask me what tragedy had befallen me (after commenting “What’s with the boot?!”), I knew I disappointed them when I said, “Oh, surgery to correct a problem.”
Not only was I just another woman in a boot, I was a boring woman in a boot.
I mentioned this to my husband, Paul. He said, “You ought to tell them that you were volunteering at the giraffe refuge and one of them stepped on your foot.”
Perfect! I did find that I couldn’t say it with a straight face until I first explained it was just surgery. Then I’d add, “But I’d really like to say I was volunteering in the giraffe refuge…”
Once I was able to venture out to the elementary libraries I supervise, more adults asked me about my foot. There had not been an epidemic of casts amongst the Pre-K-6 staff. The younger children, meanwhile, looked at me askance. A second grader at one school came into the library, stood in front of me and stared at my foot.
“I was volunteering at the giraffe refuge…”
Her eyes grew wide. Oops, I thought. She’s too young to understand sarcasm!
One night I couldn’t sleep because my foot felt so uncomfortable. I tried to think of other exciting ways to account for my cast. I was waterskiing off St. Tropez and got twisted up. I was skiing at Aspen and—no, wrong season. I was walking along the Great Wall and slipped. I was skydiving, mountain biking, doing a triathlon…I fell asleep visualizing myself being taken away on a stretcher by Gurkhas following my failed attempt to scale Everest.
Soon the boot became part of my routine and I almost forgot I was wearing it— until a stranger mentioned it or I encountered an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a while.
Then I went off to a meeting with a fellow librarian who is also named Elizabeth. The event was a half hour away, so I definitely needed a ride.
When we got there, other librarian friends wanted to know what had happened. Then I was introduced to a third Elizabeth. She too was wearing a boot. But hers was twice as tall as mine and much more impressive.
What is it with these boots? No, I didn’t say it. But you can bet I thought it!
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