A funny thing happened on my way into work on Friday. A piece of
concrete snuck right up and bit me. Of course, that’s what caused
me to go down face first on the sidewalk, my laptop clunking my
head from behind as my nose narrowly avoided an unwelcome bit of
rhinoplasty.
A funny thing happened on my way into work on Friday. A piece of concrete snuck right up and bit me. Of course, that’s what caused me to go down face first on the sidewalk, my laptop clunking my head from behind as my nose narrowly avoided an unwelcome bit of rhinoplasty.
It was the sound – a sharp intake of breath from about five people inside an open doorway – that reached my brain first. After that, a wave of embarrassment so profound as to erase the pain of my rapidly swelling wrist and ankle, not to mention my throbbing chest, took over. I sprang to my feet, refused offers of help and went in search of the main office where I might find band-aids and, I hoped, ice.
Of course, this led to further shame. Everyone wanted to know what happened, and the offending chunk of concrete that caused my fall was rounded up and summarily banished to the trash bin. I was helped into a secretary’s car and driven to the nearest clinic.
Some $2,500 worth of poking, prodding and X-rays later, I emerged with a wrist splint, a pair of crutches and a plastic boot that kept my ankle secured. That, and orders to remain off my injured foot for at least the next 48 hours.
When I got home with my new ice packs and my nice, big bottle of Vicodin, I realized I’d left the clinic with appliances, drugs and little else. There was no definitive word as to what was wrong with my foot or hand. There was scant and conflicting advice from the nurses as to how I should walk on crutches, but that was about it. I’d just been to the McDonald’s of health care, and my happy meal toys didn’t come with instructions.
Over the last few days, I’ve improvised. After a near-spill while attempting to climb the porch steps at my soon-to-be-in-laws’ home, I decided it was best to crawl the long stairway up to our second-floor condo. I called an aunt who recently had foot surgery, and she gave me the basics of crutch-walking 101.
Start with a good shoe, one that matches the height of any orthopedic boot to keep from throwing out your back, suggested my Aunt Judy, who also happens to have been a nurse for the last 15 or so years. Make sure the crutches come up to a point about two fingers below your arm pit when you stand erect, then stiffen your arm into a straight position and swing forward. Finally, for the greatest comfort of movement, strip as much padding from your crutches as possible, she said.
That last bit of advice seemed completely counter-intuitive. One of the nurses at the clinic had advised me to wrap the underarm portion of the crutches in old hand towels for extra padding, but I decided to give Judy’s advice a try. Immediately, I was swinging with much greater ease. It turned out removing the padding helped me to keep my arms in closer to my body, which made it less painful to swing on those rigidly locked elbows. This woman was a genius.
With that small measure of advice, I began to experiment and find my own methods of doing things – changing, showering, visiting the restroom – and, each elementary task reminded me of the ease of movement we healthy folks so frequently forget. My arms and shoulders – my whole body – ached with a pain I’d never known, but amid my irritations I found something more. I rediscovered my childish love of invention, glorying in my discovery of a technique for climbing down stairs. I caught up on my reading, and I discovered that, in fact, that fall was just what I needed – a time to slow down and appreciate all the little things I’d been taking for granted.
I’ve been lucky. Over the weekend, the swelling in my ankle has subsided along with the pain, and I’m on my way to recovery. Now if I could just figure out how to keep my fiancé waiting on me like this ….
