It’s been a minute since I’ve written in this space, dear readers. Time both drags and zips by, and I hope you’ve all been well in the interim. For anyone who has followed my columns since April when I broke my foot, I’m excited to report that I’m walking again — without training wheels, so to speak. I ditched the orthopedic boot a month or so ago. I battled with and lost to the ankle brace — it was uncomfortable and none of my shoes fit over it, so it was sent to early retirement. The wheelchair and walkers have been locked in the vaults of my mind, a memory I hope to never revisit (except when I return those items to their rightful owners — thanks for the borrow, y’all!). I’ve finished week four of physical therapy, and I’m able to walk — in supportive shoes — with minimal pain.
I say minimal. It still hurts, but compared to what I’ve endured since spring, this stage is a walk in the park. There’s nerve damage — a constant dull burn and numbness. My foot still swells if I’m up and about, even around the house, for more than a few minutes. And there are ligaments that feel like tight rubber bands pulling toward a snap with each step. I can’t seem to walk down a set of stairs — my foot doesn’t want to work that way — but I can walk up them.
I was thinking about a form I filled out at my last physical therapy appointment. It asked to rate things like putting on socks and shoes or walking a mile on a 1 to 5 scale of difficulty. I answered “little difficulty” or “no difficulty” on a few items, which, in hindsight, I still have quite a bit of difficulty doing. But as I gave each task a score, I was mentally comparing them to how I felt two or three months ago. The fact that I can even do these things feels like a miracle now. (Still no hopping, jogging, or running, which all received a side-scribbled “N/A” on the scale.)
Another miracle is that I’ve gotten back to my almost-daily ritual neighborhood walks. Those sacred meditations in motion where I can see the seasons change in the leaves, admire the sunlight shimmering across puddles, feel the cooler breeze against my skin. It seems I missed all of summer stuck inside mostly immobile, and my body knows it. My muscles have had to put in extra work just to be upright — my back, shins, and calves aching from a measly mile walk. But I’m gradually adding more distance, more time with shoes to pavement, taking care not to overdo it.
On a recent stroll, crisp leaves scattered the sidewalk in little cyclones, and the wind bent branches on decades-old trees towering overhead. I stopped, as I always have, to photograph flowers and butterflies and sprouts peeking through cement cracks. I spoke to my favorite old neighborhood dog, who, although she acknowledged me with a side-eye from her lounging spot in the yard, was too cozy in a sunning session to be bothered to rise and greet me. My lungs were full of fresh air and my soul filled with gratitude. For a while I walked with one earbud in listening to quiet tunes, but then there was a louder sound. Not the whir of speeding cars on the nearby thoroughfare or the chatter of neighbors conversing on their front lawn. It was a pulsing in my ear — my heartbeat. I paused the music and listened to my body’s life force, felt the drumming in unison with my steps. Reminding me that the past — that held so much pain — is gone. That my body — this extraordinary machine — is mending as it should. That this aching — this firing of blood and muscles — is necessary to fully heal. That my internal drum — pounding as I march ahead — forges on. As the last long sighs of summer give breath to fall, this path — right now (right now, right now) — is exactly where I’m supposed to be.