Yesterday was so challenging that I deemed 2:30 pm a perfectly acceptable time to finish off the wine from the other night. (It was happy hour on the East Coast, I reasoned. Here's to you, New York!) This morning found me eating a lukewarm Sysco breakfast in a desolate hospital cafeteria. Later, my cab driver was a beret-wearing, fight-picking, bitter sexist assclown who tried to charge me double the fare. But do you know why none of this matters, aside from the pettiness of it all?
Because the cast is off and I can walk again!
Well, sort of. My gait is more of an uneven duck-footed crawl — think of a sedated John Wayne wearing a lift in one shoe and you're pretty close. But still, this is better than my previous hobble style, which involved me lurching and making a dull thump each time my broken foot met the floor. Now, I have been fitted with an aluminum and velcro removable cast that makes me look like either a robot or Darth Vader. For my other foot, I have a very stylish foam lift that attaches to my shoe to make my stance more even. Yes, it is a very fashionable look. Try to conceal your envy.
People told me that the cast would smell awful when it came off, but honestly, it didn't at all. (Is it because the cast had been changed every two weeks, or because I am a delicate flower?) The considerable amount of leg hair wasn't unexpected, but I was surprised by how grotesquely parched my skin had become over the last six weeks. It was wrinkled and cracked, and you really don't want to know how much dead skin one leg can accumulate.
It is pretty amazing to see how quickly the body can restore itself. We take that for granted, but really, how wonderful is it that bones heal? The last six weeks have been long and difficult, and I'm nowhere close to walking normally yet. Already, though, it feels like things are going to get better. Tonight I got to take a real bath with both legs in the water. Adios, leg condom. Into the closet you go, unwieldy crutches. Vader-legs is on the move, and she's taking baths whenever she pleases!
Because the cast is off and I can walk again!
Well, sort of. My gait is more of an uneven duck-footed crawl — think of a sedated John Wayne wearing a lift in one shoe and you're pretty close. But still, this is better than my previous hobble style, which involved me lurching and making a dull thump each time my broken foot met the floor. Now, I have been fitted with an aluminum and velcro removable cast that makes me look like either a robot or Darth Vader. For my other foot, I have a very stylish foam lift that attaches to my shoe to make my stance more even. Yes, it is a very fashionable look. Try to conceal your envy.
People told me that the cast would smell awful when it came off, but honestly, it didn't at all. (Is it because the cast had been changed every two weeks, or because I am a delicate flower?) The considerable amount of leg hair wasn't unexpected, but I was surprised by how grotesquely parched my skin had become over the last six weeks. It was wrinkled and cracked, and you really don't want to know how much dead skin one leg can accumulate.
It is pretty amazing to see how quickly the body can restore itself. We take that for granted, but really, how wonderful is it that bones heal? The last six weeks have been long and difficult, and I'm nowhere close to walking normally yet. Already, though, it feels like things are going to get better. Tonight I got to take a real bath with both legs in the water. Adios, leg condom. Into the closet you go, unwieldy crutches. Vader-legs is on the move, and she's taking baths whenever she pleases!
Labels: i can't walk
This morning I woke to the sound of a mosquito buzzing in my ear. It was 5:30 am, and I hadn't fallen asleep until nearly two. I started the day off with the Times, rolled my eyes at David Brooks as usual, watched the sun rise, and hobbled down to the car-sharing pod to go to the doctor. ('Cause that is my new thing, you know. Hanging out at hospitals. Can't get enough!)
Whether my poor focus was due to lack of sleep, numb fingers, or general mental fog, I cannot say. All I know is that I felt like I was dreaming, which is a terrible state to be in if you're behind the wheel of a car. I don't know what was wrong with me, but I could barely focus. This is embarrassing to admit, but I went to turn left into a one-way street and had to do an oh-shit maneuver to get out of it. Later, fter doing the blood draw (didn't faint!) I carefully looked to see if I could turn left out of the hospital. The coast seemed clear, but then a Subaru almost collided into my car. In both instances, it was as though I looked and didn't see something that was there.
As the Subaru and I pulled up to the next red light, I lowered my window to apologize. The man, a NPR-listening type, screamed at me about how I was a stupid woman driver who didn't belong on the road, on and on and on. All I could say was, "I'm sorry. It was my mistake and I'm really very sorry." I repeated this calmly and sincerely. Then, without really knowing why, I blurted, "I'm doing the best that I can." He kept exploding, so up went my window.
When the light turned green, I took a deep breath and pushed the car up to the crest of the next hill. It provided a sweeping view, and since nobody was behind me, I stayed at the stop sign a few seconds longer. The city was still yawning its way awake. It was beautiful.
A dozen years ago, I'd had problems discerning dreamed events from real ones. Dreams and reality bled into each other. I sometimes couldn't remember which conversations I'd had, and which I'd dreamed. It all happened shortly after a traumatic emotional overload, which sounds overly dramatic, but it isn't. Just trust me, okay? I've not had this problem since, but my mind is fuzzy and unfocused in a similar way. Maybe the conscious brain has some stack-overflow defense mechanism that forces it to escape into vivid dreams, or if the brain circuitry becomes so taxed that it can't handle everything at once and goes on the fritz. I'm not sure, but it is an interesting phenomenon to observe. One thing is certain: I plan to consider its meaning from taxi cabs and public transit from here on out.
Whether my poor focus was due to lack of sleep, numb fingers, or general mental fog, I cannot say. All I know is that I felt like I was dreaming, which is a terrible state to be in if you're behind the wheel of a car. I don't know what was wrong with me, but I could barely focus. This is embarrassing to admit, but I went to turn left into a one-way street and had to do an oh-shit maneuver to get out of it. Later, fter doing the blood draw (didn't faint!) I carefully looked to see if I could turn left out of the hospital. The coast seemed clear, but then a Subaru almost collided into my car. In both instances, it was as though I looked and didn't see something that was there.
As the Subaru and I pulled up to the next red light, I lowered my window to apologize. The man, a NPR-listening type, screamed at me about how I was a stupid woman driver who didn't belong on the road, on and on and on. All I could say was, "I'm sorry. It was my mistake and I'm really very sorry." I repeated this calmly and sincerely. Then, without really knowing why, I blurted, "I'm doing the best that I can." He kept exploding, so up went my window.
When the light turned green, I took a deep breath and pushed the car up to the crest of the next hill. It provided a sweeping view, and since nobody was behind me, I stayed at the stop sign a few seconds longer. The city was still yawning its way awake. It was beautiful.
A dozen years ago, I'd had problems discerning dreamed events from real ones. Dreams and reality bled into each other. I sometimes couldn't remember which conversations I'd had, and which I'd dreamed. It all happened shortly after a traumatic emotional overload, which sounds overly dramatic, but it isn't. Just trust me, okay? I've not had this problem since, but my mind is fuzzy and unfocused in a similar way. Maybe the conscious brain has some stack-overflow defense mechanism that forces it to escape into vivid dreams, or if the brain circuitry becomes so taxed that it can't handle everything at once and goes on the fritz. I'm not sure, but it is an interesting phenomenon to observe. One thing is certain: I plan to consider its meaning from taxi cabs and public transit from here on out.
Labels: i can't walk, san francisco, sleep, strangers
Technically, it was. It was also the day that a new one went on. Never-ending and nonstop fun.
Labels: crabbiness, i can't walk
This morning, I looked left and turned right. Going uphill seemed potentially daunting, especially after a weekend of luxuriously slinking into taxis, so I decided to take a different way to work. At the train station, I turned a corner and nearly collided into a man in crutches. We gave each other the sympathetic once-over and started laughing at our sad predicaments. He'd ripped a ligament and was due to de-crutch next week; we compared crutch tips. (zing!) When we hobbled out of the elevator to the lower level, we walked toward a bespectacled white boy who was about to sing to commuters. Funny sight, but he had the last laugh when he began singing the hell out of the Temptations. I caught his eye and he returned my smile while crooning on: "I know you wanna leave me..." That swirl of life, of strangers' lives intersecting for a few flawless moments, made the day begin so beautifully.
The day might have ended even better if my devious love-connection plan had been implemented. Danny and I went to see Dead Man's Bones, who were fantastically weird and theatrical. All of the singers made me feel a mixture of admiration and inadequacy; their voices were like butter whereas mine is like expired VeganRella. The set was peculiar — Danny said the only word for the night was "queer," not meaning it in the gay way — but kinda inspiring in its odd beauty. Anyway, I'd hoped that Ryan Gosling was a secret broken-bones admirer, and that if only he were to see the crutches, he'd want to sign my cast, if you know what I mean. But at the end of the show, it seemed better to leave during the encore (all the better to catch a cab) and pretend that our love did not blossom simply because I had to jet early.
The day might have ended even better if my devious love-connection plan had been implemented. Danny and I went to see Dead Man's Bones, who were fantastically weird and theatrical. All of the singers made me feel a mixture of admiration and inadequacy; their voices were like butter whereas mine is like expired VeganRella. The set was peculiar — Danny said the only word for the night was "queer," not meaning it in the gay way — but kinda inspiring in its odd beauty. Anyway, I'd hoped that Ryan Gosling was a secret broken-bones admirer, and that if only he were to see the crutches, he'd want to sign my cast, if you know what I mean. But at the end of the show, it seemed better to leave during the encore (all the better to catch a cab) and pretend that our love did not blossom simply because I had to jet early.
Labels: i can't walk, music, san francisco, strangers
I stayed at work late last night, mostly to avoid the crowded rush hour trains, but also because I knew I'd just go home and sit in bed. (Or on the couch. Same thing.) The thought of spending an hour traveling just to do that was exhausting (consider all the crutching it would require, the fear of hobbling home alone down dark streets). Tossing financial prudence to the side, I wedged myself into the back seat of a cab and sighed.
The driver wore a hearing aid and looked like a middle-aged version of Phil. It was like being carted around by the future of my past. He wasn't chatty, and I wasn't feeling talkative, either, so the silence worked. Instead, I rolled down the window and took in the mild evening breeze. The preceding day, Louis and I had been talking about the air quality in our respective countries. He said that he doesn't realize his lungs haven't expanded until he's in the rainforest, and then they're surprisingly fuller. You'd choke on our air, I said.
When the taxi finally pulled up to my house, I had a bit of difficulty removing my crutches from the back seat. The car behind me honked, which mildly irritated me, because I'm moving as fast as I can, buddy. I decided to let the driver pass, but he waved me forward. I gave the thank-you smile and swung myself past the front bumper.
"Hey Annie," the driver said as I passed. I squinted, recognized him and laughed. The honk hadn't been a "hurry it up, gimpy" honk, but a hello honk from Fake Paul Weller. A serendipitous meeting. While he parked the car, I looked up at the stars and hummed the Keyboard Cat song. We then went down the hill for a pre-birthday snack, took a few pictures, talked about lost loves, and successfully kept me away from a place I didn't feel like going home to right away.
The driver wore a hearing aid and looked like a middle-aged version of Phil. It was like being carted around by the future of my past. He wasn't chatty, and I wasn't feeling talkative, either, so the silence worked. Instead, I rolled down the window and took in the mild evening breeze. The preceding day, Louis and I had been talking about the air quality in our respective countries. He said that he doesn't realize his lungs haven't expanded until he's in the rainforest, and then they're surprisingly fuller. You'd choke on our air, I said.
When the taxi finally pulled up to my house, I had a bit of difficulty removing my crutches from the back seat. The car behind me honked, which mildly irritated me, because I'm moving as fast as I can, buddy. I decided to let the driver pass, but he waved me forward. I gave the thank-you smile and swung myself past the front bumper.
"Hey Annie," the driver said as I passed. I squinted, recognized him and laughed. The honk hadn't been a "hurry it up, gimpy" honk, but a hello honk from Fake Paul Weller. A serendipitous meeting. While he parked the car, I looked up at the stars and hummed the Keyboard Cat song. We then went down the hill for a pre-birthday snack, took a few pictures, talked about lost loves, and successfully kept me away from a place I didn't feel like going home to right away.
Labels: belize, chicago, i can't walk, Paul Weller
For five days a week, I sit in bed and have little to look at but the house across the street. Ideally, I'd feel like Debra Kerr in An Affair to Remember. Realistically, I'm sitting next to a short-legged cat who, despite his own charms, is no Cary Grant. Two days a week, I make the trek to the office. On the plus side, that allows me to talk with people and see things other than the house across the street. On the minus side:
Yesterday it took 70 minutes to get to work. Seventy minutes. The lengthy commute was mostly due to the difficulty of walking two blocks to the train. It was drizzling and my backpack was unusually heavy, which made me have to stop to catch my breath every five feet. Then I had a hard time getting on the train, and after I did, some guy with a mustache accidentally kicked my feet. (Maybe he knew about my anti-mustache activism and wanted me to pay for it, who knows.)
As I ascended the stairs from the subway, I thought, "Oh, it's been at least a month since I've written to Dad. I should really send him a postcard." It wasn't until about five seconds later, while considering where to pick one up, that I remembered. There are so many habits to change and no more letters to mail.
Yesterday it took 70 minutes to get to work. Seventy minutes. The lengthy commute was mostly due to the difficulty of walking two blocks to the train. It was drizzling and my backpack was unusually heavy, which made me have to stop to catch my breath every five feet. Then I had a hard time getting on the train, and after I did, some guy with a mustache accidentally kicked my feet. (Maybe he knew about my anti-mustache activism and wanted me to pay for it, who knows.)
As I ascended the stairs from the subway, I thought, "Oh, it's been at least a month since I've written to Dad. I should really send him a postcard." It wasn't until about five seconds later, while considering where to pick one up, that I remembered. There are so many habits to change and no more letters to mail.
Labels: dad, i can't walk
Sabrina was about to come over for our weekly Top Model viewing (complete with photo shoot), but before she did so, I needed to bathe. Bathing with a broken foot is far from a graceful process. First, you have to view the bathroom the way pigeon-toed octogenarians view sidewalks in January: slippery surfaces everywhere, high likelihood of falling. Fortunately, we have a ballet barre installed in our bathroom along with enormous mirrors. (It's very "The Lady of Shanghai goes to the Joffrey.") So after resting my crutches against the wall, I pull myself along the barre to sit on the closed seat of the toilet. Lookin' good already!
After running the bath, I disrobe and put on the leg condom. Because I am concerned about getting the cast wet, I stuff the top of it with towels and then tape the whole thing shut. Now, at that point, it's best to sink into the tub reeee-alll slow-like, swinging the prophylactic leg over the side to keep it away from the evil, evil water. The position looks just as dignified and classy as you'd imagine. (Please don't imagine.) Then you take your bath like anyone else, except you worry about falling flat on your face when getting out of the tub.
Showering is more difficult, and it makes me feel less secure. I worry that the water will trickle down into the leg condom, impregnating my cast with whatever disaster water brings to bandaged appendages. Therefore, showers are to be taken only when time prohibits the safer and more luxurious bath option. Today was one of those days, so I donned the leg condom and got to work. I stood like a flamingo with one leg sticking out of the shower stall, anchoring myself with one hand and using the other to soap up. The contortions must have looked like bad interpretive dance, but I managed to shampoo and condition my hair well, so there. It wasn't until I soaped up that I looked down and realized that in putting the leg condom on with focused intensity, I'd forgotten to remove my underpants. Yes, I am 31 years old and I apparently do not know how to take a shower.
After running the bath, I disrobe and put on the leg condom. Because I am concerned about getting the cast wet, I stuff the top of it with towels and then tape the whole thing shut. Now, at that point, it's best to sink into the tub reeee-alll slow-like, swinging the prophylactic leg over the side to keep it away from the evil, evil water. The position looks just as dignified and classy as you'd imagine. (Please don't imagine.) Then you take your bath like anyone else, except you worry about falling flat on your face when getting out of the tub.
Showering is more difficult, and it makes me feel less secure. I worry that the water will trickle down into the leg condom, impregnating my cast with whatever disaster water brings to bandaged appendages. Therefore, showers are to be taken only when time prohibits the safer and more luxurious bath option. Today was one of those days, so I donned the leg condom and got to work. I stood like a flamingo with one leg sticking out of the shower stall, anchoring myself with one hand and using the other to soap up. The contortions must have looked like bad interpretive dance, but I managed to shampoo and condition my hair well, so there. It wasn't until I soaped up that I looked down and realized that in putting the leg condom on with focused intensity, I'd forgotten to remove my underpants. Yes, I am 31 years old and I apparently do not know how to take a shower.
Labels: i can't walk
Tonight I crutched my way down to the Latin American Club, where the ceilings are high and the drinks are stronger than you'd expect for $5.50. (Since I drink rarely, I enjoy good value for my dollar.) Dorothy was in town for Jauntsetter, and she and Eric had been out together already. They were there when I arrived, but I got held up at the door by the ID checker. He was very chatty — "Oh, how'd you hurt your leg?" and so forth — to the extent that I was about to ask him if he needed to see my driver's license. But as it turns out, dude wasn't checking IDs at all! Sneaky. "Well, I don't know you and you don't know me, but that cast is really cute," he said before leaving the bar. Immediately, unfairly, I thought, "Oh no, you're part of that online community of cast fetishists!" Then, to make matters worse, Eric called me out by my full name, which means that Fake ID Checker knows who I am. Latin American Club guy, if you are reading this, I am sorry if I was weirded out, but I thought you were looking at my cast in that way. I thought you might be a crutch-loving man who furtively snaps photos for online forums. (Fora? Enh.)
When I asked JC how he thinks I should handle my stress in a healthy way, he laughed and said, "I don't know how to do it in a healthy way, but my advice is to get rip-roaring drunk and spend the next day on the couch with pizza and movies." I try to not be self-destructive, and I generally succeed, but I'll be damned if a drink didn't take the edge off. If anybody has suggestions that are better than his, I'm all ears. And if not, at least it's almost time to dream. Happy birthday, Dad. I miss you.
When I asked JC how he thinks I should handle my stress in a healthy way, he laughed and said, "I don't know how to do it in a healthy way, but my advice is to get rip-roaring drunk and spend the next day on the couch with pizza and movies." I try to not be self-destructive, and I generally succeed, but I'll be damned if a drink didn't take the edge off. If anybody has suggestions that are better than his, I'm all ears. And if not, at least it's almost time to dream. Happy birthday, Dad. I miss you.
Labels: dad, i can't walk
As previously established, I am a bit of a hypochondriac. I like to think of my overanalysis of the smallest things as a charming personality quirk, because that makes me seem less loony when I do things like call Betty and blurt, "I think my foot is going to fall off."
It might! I know this because my toes have been cold and a bit tingly all weekend. (Never mind the fact that my healthy foot is also cold.) The Google tells me that this could be a sign of acute compartment syndrome, and as we all know, the internet never lies. The more I read, the more convinced I was that I was going to have to have my foot removed — maybe even the leg! ACS is serious; if you don't get it treated right away, your nerves can be permanently damaged. Since I enjoy being a biped, I phoned my doctor, who asked if I was in severe pain. Discomfort, yes; severe pain, no. Then it isn't ACS, she said, but I should come in tomorrow anyway since it sounds like I need a new cast. Despite this reassurance, I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to wake up tomorrow with my foot looking like the Cryptkeeper's.
It might! I know this because my toes have been cold and a bit tingly all weekend. (Never mind the fact that my healthy foot is also cold.) The Google tells me that this could be a sign of acute compartment syndrome, and as we all know, the internet never lies. The more I read, the more convinced I was that I was going to have to have my foot removed — maybe even the leg! ACS is serious; if you don't get it treated right away, your nerves can be permanently damaged. Since I enjoy being a biped, I phoned my doctor, who asked if I was in severe pain. Discomfort, yes; severe pain, no. Then it isn't ACS, she said, but I should come in tomorrow anyway since it sounds like I need a new cast. Despite this reassurance, I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to wake up tomorrow with my foot looking like the Cryptkeeper's.
Labels: i can't walk, neuroses
Well, this is just great. Last night during Self-Pitying Insomniafest 2009, I was organizing files when I noticed that two pictures on my Flickr stream were getting a lot of visitors. Both of them were of me in my cast. I looked at the referrers, and one was from a forum where people who are in casts can swap tips and experiences. "Oh, that's nice," I thought. "I'm sure they are just getting a kick out of the photo of me grinning maniacally while holding knives like a slasher." (You think I'm joking, but I'm not. It is a very clever and not at all ridiculous concept shot. I suffer for my art!)
I finally found sleep. I dreamed that Minou's photo was on the Flickr blog, giving ol' Mr. Tubbs the confidence boost that Milo had enjoyed during his moment of Flickr celebrity. In the dream, I thought, "Check the referrers!"
So this morning, after doing the normal wake-up things (stare out window, scan floor for hairballs), I saw that the views on the broken-me photos had jumped another 200 or so each overnight. That was odd; do that many people want to discuss their broken limbs? So I looked at the referrers again, and there was another site. I followed the link, and it's a forum for people whose fetishes are casts and crutches. Of course. Somewhere, there is a greasy German guy pleasuring himself to a photo of me on my crutches. Wunderbar! I'd let my leg hair grow in like a thick rug just to deglamorize the cast, but somewhere there is another forum for leg-hair fetishists anyway.
(The photos are now private, but who am I kidding? They've already been saved to hard drives. Ugh.)
I finally found sleep. I dreamed that Minou's photo was on the Flickr blog, giving ol' Mr. Tubbs the confidence boost that Milo had enjoyed during his moment of Flickr celebrity. In the dream, I thought, "Check the referrers!"
So this morning, after doing the normal wake-up things (stare out window, scan floor for hairballs), I saw that the views on the broken-me photos had jumped another 200 or so each overnight. That was odd; do that many people want to discuss their broken limbs? So I looked at the referrers again, and there was another site. I followed the link, and it's a forum for people whose fetishes are casts and crutches. Of course. Somewhere, there is a greasy German guy pleasuring himself to a photo of me on my crutches. Wunderbar! I'd let my leg hair grow in like a thick rug just to deglamorize the cast, but somewhere there is another forum for leg-hair fetishists anyway.
(The photos are now private, but who am I kidding? They've already been saved to hard drives. Ugh.)
Labels: crabbiness, humiliating photographs, i can't walk
At 11:14 today, I remembered that I had a doctor's appointment at 11:30. That sort of time crunch would normally send me into a frenzy, but it's almost as though my mind has no room for that, and I simply shift into quiet, purposeful action mode. You just do what needs to be done, and in this situation, I needed to zip across town quickly. Hence the flagging of a cab, my third of the week.
The driver was young, maybe a couple of years younger than me, but then again, maybe not. He had soft eyes, a baby face disguised by whiskers, and a hint of sadness in his smile. I thought he looked like someone who might patch the elbows of his wool sweaters. Like everybody, he asked how I landed in the cast. I told him and we exchanged stories of bicycle danger and inattentive drivers. He had a good disposition.
It was a beautiful, sunny day and I watched the city go by. I was a little bit unfocused because I'd been thinking that the sky looked like it did when my father died. The driver took a phone call, telling someone that he'd pick her (him?) up after he dropped off his passenger, and what should we have for supper tonight? (He decided on burgers on the grill, which seemed to please him. He seemed happy to have a simple dinner to plan.)
He hung up the phone, we crossed the street where I had my accident, and out of the silence, he said, "I'm a junkie." Just like that, I'm a junkie.
I didn't know what to say. "I'm a heroin addict," he continued. No drama in his voice, just a matter-of-fact admission. "I was off it but my girlfriend dumped me. And I relapsed, and now I'm on methadone."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't imagine how difficult that must be." Because, well, I can't. I am the squarest quadrilateral; almost everything I know about heroin comes from books, documentaries, and Lou Reed. So I told him about a childhood friend who'd developed a heroin addiction.
"His family tried to help him for years," I said. He didn't kick it the first time he tried, or the second, or the third.
"I'm lucky to have good people in my life," the driver said. "But nobody can help someone who doesn't want to help himself."
The taxi chugged up a hill, and then we were almost to the hospital. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he said quietly. I didn't either, but it felt OK. I told him that I hoped he was able to stay clean. "I hope so, too," he said.
I smiled. "I get to hope that you do it," I said. "But you have to know that you can do it." He smiled, laughed.
The fare came to $10.30; I gave him $14. "You know," I said as I reached for my crutches, "That friend I mentioned? He's been off heroin for about seven years now. And he's married, and he has a job he loves, and he's happy and healthy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And I'm really sorry about having your heart broken, but I think that you will find someone who's better for you. Eventually."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think so, huh?"
"Well, you have to think so," I said. "Either that, or you can always get a cat." He laughed again.
"Good luck," I said.
"You too," he said. I shut the door and watched the cab slink down to Duboce and Scott. After my appointment, I took in some sunshine in the park and thought about our unusually naked conversation. Sometimes it's easier to tell secrets to strangers than to the people closest to you. Sometimes you have to reach out because you need to be held, if only for a few moments. Tonight I am thinking of the fragility of stability, the strength to be spun from the tiniest thread of hope, and how we propel ourselves forward simply because we must.
The driver was young, maybe a couple of years younger than me, but then again, maybe not. He had soft eyes, a baby face disguised by whiskers, and a hint of sadness in his smile. I thought he looked like someone who might patch the elbows of his wool sweaters. Like everybody, he asked how I landed in the cast. I told him and we exchanged stories of bicycle danger and inattentive drivers. He had a good disposition.
It was a beautiful, sunny day and I watched the city go by. I was a little bit unfocused because I'd been thinking that the sky looked like it did when my father died. The driver took a phone call, telling someone that he'd pick her (him?) up after he dropped off his passenger, and what should we have for supper tonight? (He decided on burgers on the grill, which seemed to please him. He seemed happy to have a simple dinner to plan.)
He hung up the phone, we crossed the street where I had my accident, and out of the silence, he said, "I'm a junkie." Just like that, I'm a junkie.
I didn't know what to say. "I'm a heroin addict," he continued. No drama in his voice, just a matter-of-fact admission. "I was off it but my girlfriend dumped me. And I relapsed, and now I'm on methadone."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't imagine how difficult that must be." Because, well, I can't. I am the squarest quadrilateral; almost everything I know about heroin comes from books, documentaries, and Lou Reed. So I told him about a childhood friend who'd developed a heroin addiction.
"His family tried to help him for years," I said. He didn't kick it the first time he tried, or the second, or the third.
"I'm lucky to have good people in my life," the driver said. "But nobody can help someone who doesn't want to help himself."
The taxi chugged up a hill, and then we were almost to the hospital. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he said quietly. I didn't either, but it felt OK. I told him that I hoped he was able to stay clean. "I hope so, too," he said.
I smiled. "I get to hope that you do it," I said. "But you have to know that you can do it." He smiled, laughed.
The fare came to $10.30; I gave him $14. "You know," I said as I reached for my crutches, "That friend I mentioned? He's been off heroin for about seven years now. And he's married, and he has a job he loves, and he's happy and healthy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And I'm really sorry about having your heart broken, but I think that you will find someone who's better for you. Eventually."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think so, huh?"
"Well, you have to think so," I said. "Either that, or you can always get a cat." He laughed again.
"Good luck," I said.
"You too," he said. I shut the door and watched the cab slink down to Duboce and Scott. After my appointment, I took in some sunshine in the park and thought about our unusually naked conversation. Sometimes it's easier to tell secrets to strangers than to the people closest to you. Sometimes you have to reach out because you need to be held, if only for a few moments. Tonight I am thinking of the fragility of stability, the strength to be spun from the tiniest thread of hope, and how we propel ourselves forward simply because we must.
Labels: i can't walk, san francisco, strangers
Our mail carrier is pretty lazy. Whenever we have a package, he doesn't ring our bell; he just leaves one of those salmon-colored "Pick up your package!" notes. I know this because I was home all day and the buzzer never buzzed, yet Adam kindly delivered one of those slips with some cards and bills. So today I borrowed Meg's boss's enormous SUV and careened throughout the Mission to make it to the post office.
Everybody likes to ask how I wound up on crutches. Everybody! I don't mind telling the story, though I feel it loses drama without the back story. So I told the postal worker the tragic tale of mashed metatarsal, and he delivered my package with a smile. It was from Scott. The only problem: I hadn't thought about how I'd transport the parcel, considering my arms were occupied with the crutches. Crap.
The man in line behind me offered to carry the box, and while I normally like to do everything myself — proving that I have not yet grown emotionally beyond nursery school — I had no choice but to accept. So Raul the Argentinian and I walked down the street, him holding our parcels and me realizing that I should really offer him a ride. So I did.
It took three days to find a parking spot, and when I did, I realized that I was back at square one, without Raul to help. But I had only two blocks to walk, and I figured a way to hold the box between my arm and the right-hand crutch. It was awkward, but if I went slowly, I could make it work. I shuffled down the street and noticed a man and his toddler coming down from one of the beautiful Victorians. He, too, offered to help. He had a very slight, definitely European accent, and when a "bahwhay" came out of his mouth, I realized that once again I'd been saved by the French. It's comforting to know that people are kind enough to help. Restores my faith in humanity and so forth.
Everybody likes to ask how I wound up on crutches. Everybody! I don't mind telling the story, though I feel it loses drama without the back story. So I told the postal worker the tragic tale of mashed metatarsal, and he delivered my package with a smile. It was from Scott. The only problem: I hadn't thought about how I'd transport the parcel, considering my arms were occupied with the crutches. Crap.
The man in line behind me offered to carry the box, and while I normally like to do everything myself — proving that I have not yet grown emotionally beyond nursery school — I had no choice but to accept. So Raul the Argentinian and I walked down the street, him holding our parcels and me realizing that I should really offer him a ride. So I did.
It took three days to find a parking spot, and when I did, I realized that I was back at square one, without Raul to help. But I had only two blocks to walk, and I figured a way to hold the box between my arm and the right-hand crutch. It was awkward, but if I went slowly, I could make it work. I shuffled down the street and noticed a man and his toddler coming down from one of the beautiful Victorians. He, too, offered to help. He had a very slight, definitely European accent, and when a "bahwhay" came out of his mouth, I realized that once again I'd been saved by the French. It's comforting to know that people are kind enough to help. Restores my faith in humanity and so forth.
Labels: i can't walk
Cabin fever gripped me this afternoon, making me vow that come hell or high water, I was going to leave the house today. (Hell would be easier than a flood; that leg condom is difficult to maneuver, and the cast is not allowed to get wet.) So after finishing work, I peeled the bathrobe off and donned a dress. A side note: Wearing a cast means that the only pants you can reasonably wear are JNCOs. As I am unwilling to seek out the fashion castaways of '90s skater boys, this means it's all dresses, all the time.
In my dress and one moccasin, I successfully descended the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I'd walked the two and a half blocks to the video store. I was winded, so I took a break at Ritual. My podiatrist said I need to drink milk, a disgusting practice I've refused to do since leaving home, so I figured hot cocoa counts. I wrote, I finished my drink, and took five minutes to reach the overpriced grocery place across the street. There, I realized that, duh, I can't crutch and carry a basket at the same time. So I wound up shuffling along, using my right crutch to advance the basket a foot at a time. Two people helped me, which was nice. And then I took another 15 minutes to walk home.
My whole point in all of this is that if ever there were a chance to be a missed connection, this is it. I'd certainly leave one for a cute-enough girl in a dress on crutches. People like people who are a bit broken, like taking care of a baby bird who's fallen from its nest. But when I fired up ol' Craigslist, there was nary a note. There's one for some other girl who crashed her bike on Sunday, but nothing for me — yet. But it's gonna happen! I can feel it. "You were limping along in a stained dress," it'll read. "The way your asthmatic lungs heaved as you attempted the most rudimentary tasks was so alluring." Will keep you posted on inevitable developments.
In my dress and one moccasin, I successfully descended the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I'd walked the two and a half blocks to the video store. I was winded, so I took a break at Ritual. My podiatrist said I need to drink milk, a disgusting practice I've refused to do since leaving home, so I figured hot cocoa counts. I wrote, I finished my drink, and took five minutes to reach the overpriced grocery place across the street. There, I realized that, duh, I can't crutch and carry a basket at the same time. So I wound up shuffling along, using my right crutch to advance the basket a foot at a time. Two people helped me, which was nice. And then I took another 15 minutes to walk home.
My whole point in all of this is that if ever there were a chance to be a missed connection, this is it. I'd certainly leave one for a cute-enough girl in a dress on crutches. People like people who are a bit broken, like taking care of a baby bird who's fallen from its nest. But when I fired up ol' Craigslist, there was nary a note. There's one for some other girl who crashed her bike on Sunday, but nothing for me — yet. But it's gonna happen! I can feel it. "You were limping along in a stained dress," it'll read. "The way your asthmatic lungs heaved as you attempted the most rudimentary tasks was so alluring." Will keep you posted on inevitable developments.
Labels: i can't walk, san francisco
You know why some old people are cranky as a bear with a sore paw? Because getting around with limited mobility is a pain in the ass! You'd be grumpy, too, if it took 10 minutes to hobble to the bathroom and take a leak. I'm not even that busted up, yet the smallest tasks become enormous chores when you're on crutches. (If I manage to shave my legs even once over the next six weeks, it will be a miracle.)
It's not all bad, though. Generally speaking, people are nice to you if you are hobbling around on these blasted things. I find that it helps to put on your most pathetic face, especially when approaching entryways. People will hold the doors open for you, and taxi drivers will get out of the car to help you sit in the backseat. It's like everyone in the world is trying to date you, except you don't have to worry that they're going to cop a feel. And my friends have been very kind; Sabrina has even offered to create a crutch cozy so that I can look stylish while flailing about.
Today I went to the podiatrist to get the results of my MRI. Nothing beyond the break, fortunately, and on went the cast. Because I cannot be easygoing about anything, I worried that I was holding my foot incorrectly, which would eventually lead to the cast being removed to reveal a deformed foot. Time will tell. The cast is heavy, and it cannot get wet, which is why today, I came home with this:
That's right, I bought a giant condom for my leg. As I told Meg, I think it really lends a sense of dignity to things.
It's not all bad, though. Generally speaking, people are nice to you if you are hobbling around on these blasted things. I find that it helps to put on your most pathetic face, especially when approaching entryways. People will hold the doors open for you, and taxi drivers will get out of the car to help you sit in the backseat. It's like everyone in the world is trying to date you, except you don't have to worry that they're going to cop a feel. And my friends have been very kind; Sabrina has even offered to create a crutch cozy so that I can look stylish while flailing about.
Today I went to the podiatrist to get the results of my MRI. Nothing beyond the break, fortunately, and on went the cast. Because I cannot be easygoing about anything, I worried that I was holding my foot incorrectly, which would eventually lead to the cast being removed to reveal a deformed foot. Time will tell. The cast is heavy, and it cannot get wet, which is why today, I came home with this:
That's right, I bought a giant condom for my leg. As I told Meg, I think it really lends a sense of dignity to things.
Labels: crabbiness, i can't walk, sabs
