So, I was in my advanced pole dancing class, practicing the “fireman spin” and took a wrong turn and ended up breaking my ankle. Or at least this is the public version. The “I slipped down some stairs in flip flops and landed on the stone patio,” is not acceptable for a writer with any imagination. Even the doctor said I needed a better story. I am trying to project myself more Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl back from a skiing accident in Gstaad than James Caan in Misery.
The phrase, “You don’t appreciate something until it is gone,” is more true than you can imagine. Being an active person who depends on daily exercise for physical and mental sanity, hearing you are grounded for up to six weeks sounds like a life sentence. The pain and helplessness standing on one foot with the other in an ace bandage barely able to hop is unbearable. I feel like that gymnast in the ’96 Olympics Keri Strug after her last vault, although if it was Bela Karolyi who offered to carry me, I’d say, “Hold my beer, I’ll crawl.” And crutches are so 1980s — I am going to have to find a retired polo pony to get me around.
Life feels cruel. My hula hoop mocks me. My stilettos give me the stink eye. My pandemic sweats squeal with delight, “We knew you’d be back.” A long-planned trip to Paris has to be cancelled and now I have to “unfollow” the plethora of Paris travel sites I just added on Instagram so as not to weep when I check my feed. When my European charger arrives, I hurl it across the room. (You strangely get better at throwing things because it is easier to toss it where you need it to go instead of try to carry it on crutches.)
I am a tried and true Connecticut WASP so asking for help simply isn’t in my DNA. Being vulnerable is worse than wearing white after Labor Day. Yet the kind responses to my news ranging from prayer hand emojis to “I will drive three hours to pick you up and bring you to my house to care for you along with my three toddlers and two blind cats,” hit me on a solar plexus level. In a word, gratitude. I wonder if asking a young, handsome lifeguard at the beach to carry me to my beach chair would fall into the category of handicapped access instead of creepy cougar.
Shopping for my new reality takes a depressing turn when I end up in the “senior” category for everything from chair yoga to a shower stool. I change tactics and search instead for “spa” shower stool which makes me feel a bit better. I also need an elevated sneaker to keep my other hip even with the boot and think I just need to find a woman who broke her left ankle so we could share a pair. When I saw an artist friend who had a boot on her left foot, I thought “Eureka!” until she admitted she was a size 10 and I am an 8.
As a writer who appreciates the power of words, there are so many phrases I now have to avoid. Putting my foot down. Giving someone the boot. Next steps. I think putting my best foot forward will still be okay until I smash the pinkie toe on my good foot and now only have only four toes participating in getting my body around. I ask my friend who broke her ankle last winter if she has any advice. She texts back:
Stay off it.
Lots of ice.
Vodka.
I tell my sister my bucket list — literally a list which just says bucket. As I bend over to put my poor wounded foot in lavender scented soapy water, I think of the biblical act of Jesus who washed the feet of his disciples which apparently got pretty dirty in the desert. I see the humility in the act. As I gently wash the swollen, black and blue foot I say, “Oh you poor thing. What a mess.”
I realize only I can perform this act because only I know the level of hurt.
Despite the intense solitude of an injury, there is immense comfort in the generosity of both friends and strangers who are willing to (can I say it?) step up to the plate. The trick is to ask with specific times and items needed. When you are forced to sit until your pink sheepskin crutch decorations arrive, you realize the incredible shades of green in nature, the entertainment value of a chipmunk on your porch eating a leaf, and the sensual caress of a warm breeze on your face. And I wonder, with a gleam in my eye, is there a chair version of pole dancing on YouTube?
