The Bard's Hall Blog Entries June 2023

Down, But Not Out?

Down, But Not Out?
It's been three blissful weeks of limping on all two legs under my own wobbly steam. Oh, how I've missed self-ambulation and setting forth in a pair of matching footwear. My legs are a team again. I still wince at the recent memories though.
March tenth marked my tumble to the cold,unforgiving ground as I exited my pick-up truck during an attempt to access the local post office. I both felt and heard a distinctive snap as searing pain torched my lower right leg. Both the mail key and a startled bleepity-bleep expletive were flung in the air. All I could register was the disbelief. Not my driving leg!
I made no effort to scramble to my full height. I did however realize my predicament. During the less than graceful manoeuvre that saw me collapse in a disheveled heap wedged between the open truck door and the curb I'd garnered the commiserations of several senior ladies who clicked their tongues and sighed in unison. They would not be my saviours. One diminutive soul asked if the ground felt cold and should I not get up? The song 'I Need A Hero' echoed in my stunned conscious.
My startled hubby had not missed my sudden disappearance. He had attempted to spring into action, but he experienced his own real struggles with his cane which blocked his exit from our vehicle. With a valiant effort he managed to reach me huffing and puffing from the exertion. Alas, he too had a bum leg.
Fortune favours the down and out, the wounded, the woman stranded next to the sidewalk. An off-duty volunteer fireman parked behind us and offered assistance in the form of a tug upright to my one functioning limb. He and hubby then heaved, okay pushed, me back up into the cab. I'm certain no one thought of this as pretty. If ever I wished I could be remotely described as petite this was it. At least I was spared the indignity, the spectacle of a crane swinging my considerable person up off the pavement.
This incident marked my homecoming. I'd been away meeting my fourth grandgiggle and I had yet to enter my home and unpack. If I strained my neck I could just see my familiar windows perhaps fifty feet to my rear. Hubby and I were both exhausted and anticipating putting our feet up. Oh, how plans change in the blink of an eye, or an unforeseen misstep.
Certain I now had a fracture I did not waste time with a decision. Off to the nearest hospital we rolled jostling and bouncing over a forty-five minute long drive taunting me with each pothole, crevice, and bone-jarring shudder.
For once I did not endure a torturous wait in the emergency department. Within minutes of my arrival I'd been x-rayed and my hubby learned of my fracture before I received the official verdict. A nurse tipped her hand by asking if he was any good with housework and did he have plans for the next weeks.
Yep, my right fibula had not handled the stress of my plummet. The next hour saw me shed my pants, one sock and one boot in exchange for a temporary plaster cast. The doctor emphasized my injury was a non-weight bearing one. No hobbling, no shuffling, no hopping.
Leaving the hospital I wondered if a security guard or two were enjoying my clumsy antics re-entering the truck. Were security cameras recording my feeble struggle to balance on one quivering leg, scrabbling for a handhold , and battling my fatigue? I had one working leg to lift me up and in. Did I mention I needed to access a running board 'cause the truck is not simply passenger-slide-in ready? My hands groped for leverage. Always a problem solver hubby rolled down the window of the door to create a handhold. A freezing breeze lifted the flimsy material of my borrowed hospital gown. My partner hovered. I panted and began giggling. What a sight I must've been. Finally I sputtered one heartfelt oath and succumbed to the unceremonious pushes against my exposed backside. Is this how luggage feels at the airport?
But wait, my ordeal had only just begun. At home, I required support to slide out of the truck. My left leg attempted a valiant effort to balance with a pair of crutches. The wobbling couldn't be overcome. My son met us and he and his father sorta dragged me to the outer door. At that point the one threshold step seemed insurmountable, but I still needed to climb nineteen more to my apartment after traversing a hallway. My support team decided I could be pushed and pulled in a kitchen chair to the base of the staircase. We all struggled. Of course no one timed my ascent that evening, but at one point I voiced my intention to doze where I was. Why could I not reside in a building with an elevator?
With my billowing, scanty, cotton hospital gown not up to the task of preserving my modesty I lowered my self to the first step. Yep, my padded derriere was to be my right leg's stand in. I braced with my left leg while my son and husband each yanked me up by my protesting arms. Heave ho! Pant, pant. Heave, ho. Pant, pant. As I've already mentioned, it was too late for me to be petite. At one point my daughter-in-law cheered, "You're half way there!" I called her a liar and noted I was perched on the fifth step.
We gritted our teeth and dug deep. Together we struggled up that nineteen-step mountain. That first night of my involuntary incarceration saw me ensconced in an armchair, a piece of furniture I would grow to both dread and appreciate for the next nine weeks. I soon learned the meaning of house-bound.

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