These Boots Weren't Made for Walking
I typed up a blog post on my phone last night, but when I logged on this evening it wasn't there. Just an empty draft.
I'd written about how I've been growing increasingly anxious, spending each day cooped up in the house with nowhere to go. I was hoping that today's follow-up appointment with the surgeon would grant me a reprieve. The X-rays revealed that everything was healing nicely. But the surgeon said I couldn't walk or drive until early January.
That was disappointing. I'd been hoping to return to the office by the end of this month. I miss my coworkers like crazy. I miss the water cooler conversations, the salad bar lunches. After two weeks of seclusion I'd even take a day of meetings over a day spent at home.
I cried a lot at the appointment. The nurse took my cast off and then left me on the examination table with my leg exposed, bruised and swollen, ugly lines of stitches going up each side, and I started hyperventilating because I felt so broken, and petrified of moving.
The nurse thought I was in a lot of pain. Her patience dwindled when she realized I was just scared. She took out the stitches and strapped a big black boot to my leg. With my fear of moving and my stiff joints, it took me ten minutes to bend my foot into the proper 90-degree angle.
The boot is bigger and heavier than the cast. I keep banging it into things. This evening I propped it on the armrest of the couch while the rest of the family dragged the Christmas decorations up from the basement. They hung stockings and wrapped holly around banister. I turned on some holiday music and enjoyed the view.