I am feeling grateful, and not just because Thanksgiving is right around the corner. My bandages are gone, I’m out of my walking cast, and, finally, I am standing on my own two feet once again.
Sort of—but I’ll take it.
At the end of September, I had surgery to correct a problem with my foot. Two weeks of relative immobility followed, then I hobbled around for four weeks in an Aircast boot.
I went to see my podiatrist after six weeks with a pair of sneakers in my bag. Maybe . . . .
The doctor did give me a green light to ditch the boot. But I had to do it gradually, over a week to 10 days. He advised me to wear the boot to work the next day, which was a Friday. Then I would have the weekend to start to walk in sneakers, or a wide, comfortable shoe.
I put my boot back on rather sorrowfully. One more day of confinement.
It was just as well. When I got home, I tried on my shoes and found that none of them fit—except for the big sneaker I’d brought to the doctor’s office. They are nice Avias, but I don’t usually wear sneakers to work. To my mind, these would only be appropriate for “casual Fridays.”
Off to the shoe store I went the next day. I’d done some research online, and decided that a flat slip-on made of soft leather would be my best bet. When I found a pair that fit perfectly—in purple, no less!—I was happy.
I had been looking forward to driving myself around on this excursion. Since the surgery was on my right foot, I’d only driven a few times in the last month and a half—basically up the street to the supermarket. However, my husband Paul kept asking me if I wanted him to drive me, and I finally relented.
After buying the shoes, we headed for Target. An hour later, I was glad Paul had taken the wheel. Since I wasn’t walking at full capacity, I was exhausted. I could tell that my awkward gait was going to make me sore the next day. I was relieved Paul was there to load the bags into the car.
Yet, I did feel free, out of my boot. I had bought myself a pair of cozy, felt, backless slippers that were comfortable for wearing around the house. Aah.
I didn’t have to engage in my daily tussle with the boot. I didn’t have to fasten myself in the boot, clamp on the protective plate, strap the whole kit and caboodle together, and inflate it—then repeat the procedure in reverse in the evening. Double aah.
Although I appreciated (and that is an understatement) everything Paul did for me during my recovery, I did miss my independence. I’m an efficient shopper, but I hated to think of Paul sitting in the car waiting for me, even if he was reading a book. I didn’t want to make him wait when he picked me up from work, but I don’t want to be rude to people I see along the way to the car.
When I was in the cast, colleagues—and strangers—did want to talk. I guess wearing a boot is like being pregnant. Everyone feels free to ask all about it—although an expectant woman is not generally asked, “What happened?”
I was happy, too, to be able to get outside. Naturally, I couldn’t participate in any outdoor activities. But even trying to get some fresh air by feeding our backyard chickens was difficult. Traversing the yard in a boot was not my idea of a good time. I certainly couldn’t do it if it was damp or rainy out.
Did I have cabin fever? Yes! It was difficult to go anywhere in the car if the trip took more than 15 minutes. I didn’t dare go to the movies. I was afraid my foot would fall asleep inside the boot and I’d have to get up, go to the lobby and stomp a few times. Art museums were out, as was walking on the beach.
Even when I really, really wanted to get out to have an adventure, the thought of gallivanting in the boot quickly dampened my spirits.
Finally, and though I never thought I’d say this, I missed being able to exercise. I’m not much of an athlete, but I do like to walk. In the month before my surgery, my foot was bothering me too much for me to walk far on a regular basis, so I started riding my bicycle daily. I was motivated by the knowledge that I would be virtually chair-bound for six weeks.
As I write this, I’ve only been out of the boot for five days. Needless to say, I’m not training for my first half-marathon yet. But I have climbed a long stairway at work, instead of taking the elevator. I drove myself to and from my job, and stopped at the supermarket on the way home. I am feeding the chickens on a regular basis. Small things, mundane things. But as Joni Mitchell wrote, “You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.”
Even though my recovery means I’ll have to start cleaning the litter box again, I’m still excited, happy, and yes, grateful to be back.
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