Slowing it Down
Last Thursday morning as I was working out, the shiny and heavy chrome weight I was lifting over my head slipped out of my hand and landed hard on my left foot. I’d watched the movie “Elf” the night before and the only expletive that came out of my mouth was “son of a nutcracker!” The urgent care x-ray revealed a shattered pinky toe.
So much for that New Year’s resolution.
I’m ensconced on the couch now, toes taped together and wrapped in stretchy smiley face bandages, covered by an ice pack tied with an IKEA dish towel (that will never see the kitchen dishes again, I assure you). On the floor beneath the end table is my left foot’s new ride—an open-toed post-op shoe in desperate need of a fashion upgrade, which I’ll take care of later this afternoon with embroidery floss and a scattering of beads. Until then, the question is…now what? From my perch I can see everything that needs to be dusted and vacuumed, downsized and taken to the thrift store but can do none of it. When the cats get up to stuff (like stealing each other’s food, tipping over the garbage pail, hanging from the curtain hems), my sharp scolding tones do little to discourage them and that spray bottle can only shoot so far (they’re learning that). I’m grateful that I filled the suet feeders before the Great Accident; at least the birds are entertaining and low maintenance. Wait—birds. I still need to let the chickens out and gather eggs. The engineering of that task will give me something else to think about as I sit here also pondering the whole breakfast project.
Until last Thursday, my body had never known any injury that required more than an ice pack or a band-aid. It’s a marvel that I made it this far into my collected decades without such drama (I’ve had my share of other adventures and burdens, to be sure; maybe the universe had pity on me that way). My only stiches and staples were surgery-necessary and the curious scientist in me found the mechanics of it all quite fascinating. I’ve even removed stitches from a few of Patrick’s wounds, a bit squeamishly, but he talked me through and once I got past my hyperactive gag reflex, all went as it should. Maybe I’m more about preventive medicine and habits. Who knows? I left the urgent care limping and giggling a bit, full of questions and happy for the Advil I always carry with me. I’ll pick up a prescription for antibiotics later this morning (a precaution against infection since that suffering little toe was bleeding from blunt trauma) and stop at the store for a few more craft supplies. That post-op shoe of mine is gonna look great when I’m through with it.
Forced pauses and stillness are good for the soul, reminders that perhaps choosing them intentionally is also a wise idea hatched in a relentlessly active mind. In the exam room I heeded, more or less, the instructions to not use my cell phone and found the absence of scrolling refreshing. It gave me space to notice my surroundings, to listen for clues to the activity taking place on the other side of the closed door. I reflected on the signage posted on cabinet doors stating that rude and aggressive behavior from patients would not be tolerated, that parents should not let their children play with the equipment or steal the nonlatex gloves. Sad that those words even need to be posted for all to see. When the nurse returned to wrap me up and send me on my way, I wished her a short day filled with people who were kind and decent. She smiled weakly and nodded, as if daring to hope for such an outcome to her workday was the height of folly. As I drove away, I recommitted myself to inserting as much gentleness into my interactions with strangers as I could, for those few minutes of connection at the bank, the grocery store, the gas station may be all the kindness someone receives that day.
As this new experience unfolds for our household, Patrick is a gem, making me tea and bringing me cookies, apples and scrambled eggs with Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. He asks how I’m feeling and during a wake-me-up shooting pain episode last night, gingerly removed my bandages so my toes could breathe a little. It was just the medicine I needed and the sleep that followed was deep, dreamless and without cats (he made sure they stayed downstairs). My mornings now consist of foot baths and dressing changes, easy stretches and looking at the bare trees on the other side of the living room windows, realizing that the seventeen acres of walking paths will not see my footprints for a while. I’m piling up “sitting” work I can tend to that includes prep for an upcoming workshop I’m facilitating on volunteer management fundamentals, putting nonslip nose pads on all my eyeglasses, editing the next two books and creating my 2025 vision board (I’m saving that for last because it promises to be the most fun). Random and occasional napping is not only permitted but encouraged.
When I’m all healed and skipping about again from one happy task to the next, I shall make a note to pause deliberately and relish the learnings that will come from that. Until then, I’ll take this slow medicine gladly. What a gift.
