I stepped in a hole a few weeks ago while walking our dog, Jimmy.
Not very glamorous, I admit.
(In my defense, the hole was totally covered by grass.
It’s not like I just walked right in.
But I admit I’ve noticed that hole many times before while with Jim on our daily walk.
Apparently, this last time--I didn’t.)
But I did not fall down!
There is that.
Anyway, it’s my first broken bone, and boy, it came with so much stuff.
Stuff like pain, effort, humility, irritation, self-pity, hassle, self-sufficiency, resilience, and even test of character, I’d say.
First off, the crutches. How do people use these things? Or at least use them without lots of complaining? I’d never really thought about it much. I mean, I’d sort of felt sorry for people when I’d see them on crutches. But really, how often do you see anyone on crutches anymore? When I think of crutches, I immediately picture being back in high school. First there was my big brother Bill. He dislocated his knee in high school, and had what I recall as a full leg cast and was on crutches for a month.
I remember the call from the school. The message we got from the nurse was that he’d injured his knee in wrestling class and was in the emergency room and we should come right away. We were horrified, of course, but puzzled, too. Bill in wrestling class? Bill was a performer—he was in Concert Choir, and he always had the lead in the school musicals. He was Lancelot in Camelot, and Finian in Finian’s Rainbow. (In fact, he went on to perform professionally for many years. And now he makes his living as a voice talent.) So the wrestling angle made us almost as anxious as the knee. When we finally caught up with him at the hospital, we were relieved to learn that the school nurse had apparently been playing some cruel version of the game of telephone, that something had gotten lost in translation; Bill had actually twisted his knee while on stage practicing a dance move for the upcoming musical. Ah, the world was back to normal.
That whole time he was on crutches, I don’t remember him complaining, ever. But then, really, what was there to complain about? It just made him even more popular in school than he already was! And it seems back when I was in high school, kids were on crutches all the time. I picture them whizzing down the hallways sans difficulty. The school did give them a pass to get out of class early, as I recall, to make it to their next class on time, but that was the only concession. (I’ve never been able to figure that one out. Why not just be late to the next class instead?) Our high school had no elevator (in fact, requiring an elevator pass was one of the classic tricks pulled on naive freshman), but did have lots of stairs. I picture those kids zipping up and down those stairs, with crutches and books both, somehow, feet daringly raised high in the air before landing safely on the next step. It was fun! Or so it looked to me. But I can't recall seeing anyone on crutches since.
And now that I, finally in my 50’s, have crutches of my very own, I can see why. Holy smokes, it is hard. Exhausting. After the first day, I thought I wouldn’t make it another day, let alone the 4+ weeks the doctor ordered. And I’m no 98 lb weakling, darn it! I go to the gym every day and I take James T. Chandler (named after Capt. Kirk) on his 2 mile walk every day. And I’m fairly coordinated, if I may be so bold--Bill wasn’t the only performer in the family. So I could maneuver the crutches okay. But you have to lift your entire weight in the air to go anywhere, be it a foot away or a block. And be you 98 lbs. or 300. (I fall in between there somewhere.) And then there’s the need to use them for virtually every move you make. You want to read the paper? Uh oh, it’s on the table that’s 4 feet away. You want, say, a caffeine-free Diet Dr. Pepper while you watch TV? Uh oh, you can’t carry anything. Anything. I mean, your hands are kind of already in use. The first time I went to the doctor about my foot, I had to bring the x-rays from Urgent Care, which turned out to be on sheets about 2’ x 2’. I had no hands available! I had to carry them in my teeth.
This brings me to the next never-talked about aspect of the whole thing. The indignity. If you have a big ego, and do not care for being humbled, well all I can say is, step carefully. Because crutches ain’t for you, my friend. Because the indignity didn’t stop at parading myself in public carrying giant x-rays in my teeth. Our house has stairs. And not just an upstairs and a downstairs; we have a split level. Which, in our house, means the only thing on ground level is the front door. So there was no, Oh, I’ll just stay downstairs and sleep on the couch, so I won’t have to use the stairs much. Nope. In our house, if you’re going out, if you’re coming in, if you’re answering the door—stairs are involved. I have developed the charming, old-fashioned habit of trusting absolutely everyone who comes to the door these days, answering each knock with a breezy, “Come in!” (Please don't tell my mom.) Keep your fingers crossed all comers are friendly for the next 3-4 weeks.
For the first week or more, the idea of taking my life in my hands trying to go up and down while balancing precariously on the crutches and hopping was immediately rejected. So I scooted. Anyone who’s injured a foot or leg is probably familiar with this mode of getting up and down. You just sit on your behind and scoot yourself, like that crabwalk you learn in exercise class, up or down, depending on which way you want to go. Sounds fine, but let me tell you, any shred of dignity that you may have had left is completely gone once you find yourself hauling yourself up and down the stairs, finally reaching your destination, spent. And in our house, it involves avoiding this little tiny nail that I’ve now discovered sticks up at the landing, where the linoleum (yes, we still have linoleum) meets the carpet. Somehow I’ve managed to get a hole in only one pair of pants so far. Oh, and what about the days when I’m wearing a skirt? Please don't even try to picture the ridiculousness of that.
Our house also involves scooting just to get in the door. Our front step, for some unknown reason (has our house settled a foot? Which suggests we have much bigger concerns than walking on crutches, surely) is high. Very high. So to get in the front door, it’s just not possible to hop. Too high to hop! So guess what? I have to sit down on the floor of the entry, swing myself around, then crawl up to a standing position. All in plain view of the neighbors. All of whom I imagine as Gladys Kravitz, hiding behind their curtains laughing hilariously, calling to Abner, “Come quick and see the crazy lady across the street!”
After about two weeks of that, I decided I’d had it. (Apparently, I am one of those who don’t like to be humbled.) I actually had gotten used to the crutches enough by then so they felt like a part of me (well, sort of). And that day when I stood at the top of the stairs, I could feel that “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more” moment coming on. I decided then and there that the scooting was over. Yes, even at the risk of life and limb. I took a breath and just went for it, trying out a number of options, and hurrah, I did it! I didn't kill myself! (This is particularly lucky for Steve, because he was sound asleep at the time and would have woken up to find me sprawled there at the bottom of the stairs.) So I found a system that works for me. Yes, both up and down! I’m now going up and down the stairs on my crutches, no behind involved! Who would have thought that would be a fabulous thing to be able to say? I’ve mastered the demon that was the stairs in my house, and I’m off the scooting for good.
And the front step? I’ve come up with a solution for that one, too. MacGyver to the rescue! I simply put a kitchen chair outside the door. (Or rather, I had Steve put a kitchen chair outside the door.) When I get to the front step, I just put my knee on the chair, then push off that knee and step into the house with the other leg. Voila, I’m in! Again, no butt involved. Freedom! At last.
So I’ve learned some things about myself. I don’t like to look foolish. When faced with adversity, I cry--a bunch--then get on with it. (I’ve chosen not to share the less than admirable details of that particular story line here.) I’m annoyed by not being able to do things myself. “These are the times that try men’s souls,” someone or other said. I think it was someone who had broken some appendage. Truly. There are more things I've learned about myself and life, too, from this unexpected “opportunity,” as my friend Deb and I learned to say during our tenure at Nordstrom.
Stay tuned.
Where the seat would be, there’s a very soft, very padded cushion. So you stand next to the thing, put the knee of your bad leg on the pad, and push yourself along with your good leg. (Now, please forgive me for being judgmental about legs, but I think it’s safe in this situation to designate good and bad leg. I’m counting on you to figure which is which. Although, come to think of it, my “bad” leg is so much slimmer now that I haven’t used it, that I really like it better. So maybe this isn’t so clear after all.) Anyway, that’s the knee-walker in a nutshell.
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