I’m learning to walk again.
Literally, not metaphorically.
I had my foot rebuilt in early November. I couldn’t walk the Puggles or do yoga anymore and I’m too young for that shit. So I went under. Torn ligament repaired, three bones moved, a bunch of hardware installed. As my surgeon said, I “had a lot going on there.” The promise of a normal foot is elusive, but I remain imprudently hopeful.
Crutches were first. I didn’t expect them to be easy. They were not.
I didn’t expect them to make me feel as if my soul and bone marrow were being sucked entirely dry in an incredibly painful and exhausting way every time I went somewhere.
Next came the scooter. A lifesaver at home. One hundred percent useless at my theater, due to the stairs.
There have been complications: Stress fracture, lots of swelling, strong possibility one of the screws is getting evicted.
I didn’t get the boot off until about two weeks ago.
Re-learning how to walk…It feels like walking on someone else’s foot, with all the creep factor you might associate with that. It’s ungainly. I’ve never walked using this particular combination of muscles, ligaments and tendons with this weight distribution. Although, my toes have never pointed all in the same direction before now.
I’ll spare you the pictures.
I’ve never had to think about walking. Now it’s all I think about. My calf is totally pissed and uncooperative. My quad goes back and forth between active attacks and just snickering at me. My “good” knee is rebelling after months of being skewed from the boot and having to do all the stairs by itself. It’s in deliberations as to whether it will be part of the solution, or part of the problem. It is remarkably uncommitted. But I’m fucking walking.
I get to walk.
None of this is graceful. I told CC the other day, I look like that dead farmer in Men In Black who gets possessed by the alien.
“WHERE IS IT?!?”
New Yorkers aren’t terribly interested in slow walkers, especially during rush hour. I’m not terribly concerned that these able-bodied a-holes have to go around me. I may secretly relish impeding their fleet and dexterous footwork.
Besides, it’s not like I can quickly get out of the way. I’m not quickly anything-ing right now.
You ever see those guys with the flyers for sightseeing tour buses in Midtown? They’re pretty good at discerning who’s a tourist. People who look like they’re trying to get to work are ignored. They’ve never approached me.
Apparently, the main way they decide if you’re a tourist or not is the speed of your walk.
They’re totally fucking hounding me right now.