So being laid up by this broken foot has been overall less fun than you might think–being waited on by my brother, while necessary, got old really fast due to my cramped apartment. After a couple days off my feet to alleviate some major swelling, I determined that staying in a third floor SF walkup (with extra rickety stairs) during my ~6 week recovery was going to end in one of two outcomes: 1. I fall while trying to use the stairs with my crutches and break every other bone in my body and die, or 2. I stay in my apartment alone and go slowly insane, assign names and personalities to every inanimate object around me and talk to them like friends (OHAI, MR. TEA KETTLE! DID YOU JUST WHISTLE AT ME? DAMN, I’M FLATTERED), choke on mediocre pad thai and die. So I sucked up the cost for a last-minute cross country flight and am now at my parents’, where my mother in particular is saving my sanity by taking me on daily trips to see the suburban sights (Target and Starbucks, WOOT!) and saving me from further injury by helping with daily tasks that have gotten a LOT harder since the accident, even with my new baller KNEE SCOOTER, Y’ALL.
I even got a basket for it, which came in handy at Target the other day as we stocked up on essentials like a dog toy shaped like an easter flower, soap with a mustache printed on it, and cadbury mini-eggs (YOU’RE WELCOME FOR MY SUPPORT OF THE COMMERCIAL CIRCUS SURROUNDING YOUR CRUCIFIXION AND RESURRECTION, JESUS!). I must say I look pretty cool on my scooter with my giant broken foot boot, dripping sweat as I propel myself across the just-waxed floors of every big box store in southern New Hampshire at speeds that astound of the kindergarteners I whiz past while squealing, “Wheeee! EAT MY DUST, RUGRAT!”
But yeah, besides the scooter (which I’m very excited about, unless you can’t tell), this kind of sucks. I am definitely showing my able-bodied privilege here, but I have a renewed respect for people with disabilities. Many places are not as friendly to the mobility-impaired as you might think, despite the ADA. Everything from a curbs to a rain mat to a sidewalk seam is a possible death trap if you land your crutch the wrong way, and maneuvering scooters and wheelchairs through crowds at the airport and aisles at the supermarket can be really frustrating. I’m SO fortunate that this is temporary (and that I didn’t need surgery!), and I feel sheepish and naive for having to get injured myself to realize that. Also, as a depressed person, I haven’t been dealing with the limitations of even temporary physical disability/injury well, which has made the last week kind of hard. I don’t say that to ask for pity, it’s just a reality of having depression and anxiety–I take physical illness really hard and often see it as a personal failing (like, oh, if I had washed my hands more, I wouldn’t have gotten the flu; or, if I had worn a different pair of shoes, I wouldn’t have broken my foot). Pointless self-blame is super fun, right, fellow depressed peeps?
That being said, I’m finally getting into a rhythm, and I’ll survive, obviously. Having my parents and Roxie around has been a life-saver. Roxie especially provides great emotional support as she’s a big fan of cuddling me in the evenings when I watch TV or write:
So my main life advice to you all at present is to avoid drinking wine and then walking, put away some money in a rainy-day fund in case you ever need to buy a knee scooter on Amazon, and don’t pay attention to the election on Facebook (this last one is not broken foot-related, just general advice. We still have eight months of this, guys. EIGHT. MONTHS.).
Enjoy your feet if you got ’em! ❤