Randolph Having a broken foot is no picnic.
I’m getting to the place in my head where I’m frustrated that I can’t do the things I took for granted for 30-mumble years.
Like walking up stairs. Emptying the dishwasher (yes, really). Putting on clothes. Showering. Walking down stairs. Driving (though having an automatic transmission makes this easier). Using a step ladder to look for things in cupboards. Carrying anything bigger than a sock.
I led a far more active life than I imagined. I’m sedentary if by that definition I don’t exercise regularly, but this is a completely different kind of lifestyle and it’s driving me to frustration. I would think nothing of running up and down our 34 stairs five to ten times a day. Now I panic going up because the only way down is backwards.
My current process for giving my dog water involves a multi-stage use of crutches and nearby surfaces. First I put the water bowl on the nearest corner of the kitchen table. Then I move it to the other corner. Then I move the bowl to the centre island, where I move it again to the opposite corner. Then I can reach it from the fridge, which is another exercise in frustration. After filling the water bowl, I do the steps in reverse. What used to take maybe fifteen to twenty seconds now takes a good two minutes, and it’s tiring.
If I rush, I fall over. I’m already a clumsy person (hello, broken foot), but this is ridiculous.
I just read a disheartening series of comments on a website I found that emphasises what sort of mental toll this sort of thing takes, irrespective of the physical toll.
Since wearing the cast, which has been less than a day, I have to elevate my foot regularly to make the swelling go down.
This sucks. I have even more respect for other physically disabled people now.