I am not a trooper. While I can now pee in a cup on one leg and butt-walk out of a van shower that slopes backwards, it’s important to note that I threw myself the pitiest of parties.
I snapped my fibula while hiking the Reykjadalur trail with my mother and sister in Iceland. I kept thinking how amazing my Snoop Dog wine was gonna taste as we starfished our tired bodies in a thermal river. And I went down just a few hundred feet from the dragon breath plumes of steam.
Aside from the cinematic ATV rescue ride down the mountain, my life has been still. I hop from bed to couch to toilet to bed in a 150 sq ft box and obsessively poke at my ankle, demanding answers from my weary husband.
Why does it STILL hurt after 6 weeks? Am I gonna limp like the guy from Misery? Can you feel right here to see if it’s a thrombosis?
I’m not an anxious person. But zero walks and ambivalent medical care in Iceland FREAKED me the eff out, like I was nursing a dying stump. Surgery was a maybe? To complicate matters, we were ferry-ing across the Atlantic and country-hopping from the Faroes through Europe and back to the UK to meet friends in Scotland.
An appointment with a pragmatic German finally put my mind at ease that I was healing properly. I trusted him implicitly based on how bad his jokes were. A tiny bit of my brain returned to me. Here’s what it observed.
God damn heroes limp amongst us.
I am exhausted by a fairly nothing impediment. Taking a shower may as well be a mission to Middle Earth. Everything is hard and painful and slow. My moods are unstable. And my suffering has an end date.
I feel so gross for ever rolling my eyes at the infinity accessible parking spots at Yosemite or Pompeii, thinking something spicy like “but they can’t even hike.” P sure Ralph who ass-scooted down his 3 flights of stairs this morning appreciates a mountain view just as much as the rest of us.
Asking for help is demoralizing.
Whenever I watch a movie with an at-risk character (abused woman, addicted child, estranged sibling) I flatly think, “Why don’t they just TELL someone they need help.” Wow, am I a basically a therapist? Meanwhile, I’m brooding in bed with my ankle propped hoping Mark will sense that the Q-tip on the floor is bugging me.
Loss of autonomy is mandatory. Support is optional.
Even more difficult than surrendering to being cared for is not. having. care. I’ve gotten a taste of what old age could look like as my husband carried me into a basement pub, injected my belly with blood thinners, and rubbed my forehead as I whimpered at night. This is best-case scenario stuff.
How many people are quietly suffering, relying on harassed family members and underserved volunteer resources? I better understand why the housebound man I used to grocery shop for pulled out photo albums and news clippings to share while I put away his canned goods.
It’s been a painful wakeup call. To protect all the things that are precious to us. To be less immersed in meaningless shit. And to freely give of ourselves to people who would sooner deny themselves basic dignities than ask for help.
None of this is breaking news, but it is background noise we choose to ignore until we can’t. Volume up, friends.