Posts Tagged ‘crutches’

Three More Weeks of This?

June 17, 2014

How the hell am I going to get through it?

That thought came unbidden again as I settled myself down for a quick rest before tackling the daily drudgery or daily living.

Which really is not drudgery until you get so slowed down that you, or I should say I, I get tired after walking, WALKING! the laundry to the garage.

Little did I know that by the time it was ready to be folded I would have to take a nap to recover from it.


I had to take a nap to recharge myself.

Then again, I did a lot of “walking” today.

First time in the house using the crutches about half time.

This is pretty much what the doctor had told me would happen, 7-10 days on the crutches, then I would be able to start walking in the boot, and with some time and patience, now, damn it, now, I would be able to walk with one crutch, then none at all.

When I am inside I can do the none at all about half time.

I go real slow, however, there is no going fast.

“Wow, you’re getting fast on those,” my friend said, referring to my bright bling bling gold crutches, when he picked me up today to take me to the Inner Sunset and then to do some grocery shopping after.

I am, but I get tired faster than I want to.

Although, last Monday all I could do was sit and softly cry and be misty eyed watching the frog scroll in through the park as my friend shopped for me, this time I was able to go in and lend a hand.

Well, maybe not even a hand.

For by that time the novelty of walking on the boot had more than wore off and my ankle was letting me know quite clearly that it was not having much more of it.

I used the crutches throughout the store and I don’t know if it was that, the lack of my list, which I realized later was in my purse, the getting out-of-the-way of other shoppers, (wow is everyone so self-involved?  I have never seen so many folks standing in the aisles looking off into nowhere or having blithe conversations with friends, totally blocking the way) I caught a larger path with the crutches, or the need to get in and out as fast as possible, to less inconvenience my friend, but.


Sticker shock at the register.

I did get myself a few treats, nice avocados, a bag of cherries, a bag of Four Barrel coffee, a pre-made roasted chicken, but damn Gina.

Of course, I normally don’t buy that much pre-pared food, but I was getting winded and tired and wanted to be done with it.

I had been a hero.

I did my laundry.

I grocery shopped.

And now, I’m done.

Who the hell needs to worry about the weeks ahead?

I can barely make it through the store.

I have a lot of healing to do yet.

Despite my head saying, hey, look, you’re doing great, let’s go back to work.




I cannot imagine what it would take out of me to climb the stairs to change a diaper, let alone two boys who are active and engaging and bright and, uh, active, I can’t go back yet.

Silly head.

I do miss the boys though and I was thinking I should ask for a visit, that might be nice,  meet them somewhere, maybe close by, I don’t know, yet, that’s a little outside my bailiwick at the moment.

Wrangling boys or wrangling my schedule.

“Now’s a great time to look at that list,” she reminded me this weekend.

That list is my list of creative projects and things I want to be working towards, things I want to do, not things I like to do, but things that I want to do, and so many of them are creative things.

I have my book to edit, a book proposal to write, hats to make, songs to write, poems, I had an idea for a vocal album that  I want to flesh out, there’s really so much that I can be doing.

Once I recuperate from laundry and grocery shopping, I’ll get right on it.

There is time.

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create.

Murder those old ideas about what I can and cannot do, to unlearn the lessons that have caused me untold nightmares of self-flagellation for so damn long.

“He said, ‘shit or get off the pot’ so I did,” he told me last night recounting how he started making music and singing three years ago after “whining” about it for the previous ten.

I don’t want to be ten years in and still bewailing the book not being published, the song not being written, the poem in my heart still lingering, like yellow fog smudged and dirty corralling through the channels and chapels of my arteries, I do not want to corrode myself and my creativity out of fear, because it just won’t be good enough.

I do deserve better than that.

And as I sit, frozen peas at hand, ankle up on three fluffed up pillows I can allow myself to start the walking there too.

Not the walking on my ankle, it needs a damn rest, but those small, tiny steps that lead somewhere, not seen as much, but they add up, they do, those tiny actions that suddenly lead to a work, an oeuvre, a body of my own creating.

I have it in me, it just gets drown out in the clamour of getting ahead and getting my way and getting from point A to point B as fast as my bicycling legs can go.

Which right now, is nowhere.

I have some folks I need to chat with, some avenues to explore, but I will be getting out that list tomorrow and I will start small and take an action, any action will do, towards a creative goal.

And in between ruminations I will rest, ice, compress, and elevate that ankle.

This may be the last rest I get for a while.

Take advantage of it while it’s here.

Things are a shifting.

I want to be prepared for them.

Rested and ready for the next long walk on the path.

It’s only up from here.



Ups & Downs

June 16, 2014

Mostly, ups today.

Although I did have some down.

I, uh, decided to take a shower and improvised a shower chair.

Yeah, I know, I am not the smartest tool in the box and apparently I am trying to kill myself in the shower.

Who needs to be Janet Leigh in Psycho?

I am my own worst enemy.

I asked the housemate about the patio chairs and she said, nope, could scratch the tiles.


Really good point.

She added she had a rubber stopped stool in the closet, but I could not locate it.

By this point, I was on a mission, my legs were so itchy scratchy from the forest of dark hair I could not take it and last night I vowed I would take a shower today.


I would not balance on one leg, no I would get a stool or something.

Or something.

Like an empty plastic bin from Burning Man.

Because, you know, all things Burning Man.

Socks, bins, flowers in the hair, bling-bling.

A friend painted, spray painted my crutches today in gold and even put some glitter on the wing nuts.

That was the up of my day.

I laughed so hard in glee when she presented the re-assembled crutches to me.

It was the hardest I have laughed since this damn thing happened nine days ago.

The crutches are happening and I feel happy using them.

Not for too long though, it’s still a work out and by the time I was finished with my hour of sitting in an uncomfortable chair at Our Lady of SafeWay, I was ready to call it a day.

I got back to the house and ate some dinner and decided that the one thing I could do was change the sheets on my bed.

I don’t like to go more than one week and I was at eight days.

So I gingerly walked around my bed in my walking boot and yes, I did indeed do it.

I was even going to wash them.

But when I got them into the laundry basket and put the basket on the bed and grabbed the detergent, the reality hit and I was done.

I mean.

That was it.

Hey girl.


Stop now.

So, I shelved the idea and just left the dirty clothes and sheets in the basket.

Tomorrow, it’s like another day, another day to try to get it, the laundry, into the garage.  I think with a little more practice, it actually won’t be that difficult, walking in the boot is getting easier, although the distance has to be short, like you know, from my bed to the kitchen.

Not too far when you consider I live in a studio.


The shower gods have heard me.

My housemate’s old partner had a broken leg and she just brought me in the step stool that they used when she broke her leg.


I can shower without killing myself.

Or sitting on a Burning Man bin.

Which, in case you were curious, did not work too well.

I just ended up sitting on the floor of the shower and letting the water roll off me.

It might have been the longest shower I have ever taken as an adult.

The small things that I take for granted, being able to take a shower, the ease of fixing a cup of tea and moving it to my nightstand, which I never once thought about before this accident happened.

Now, I think about how do I position the kitchen chairs around the studio so that I have a chain of platforms to move the cup from.

I use three.

First, heat the water.

Then, pour the boiling water over the tea.

Next, move it to the table, use one of the chairs to settle a knee on to give stability.

Now, open fridge and take vanilla almond milk of the door and splash a little over the top.  But not too much, because you dont’ want the tea to slop over the sides of the mug while you are moving it to the next chair seat.

Which you do, then hop, skip, small jump with crutches and ankle swinging behind you, limp to the second chair.

Move cup and position self in between second and third chair.

This is where it gets easier and somewhat trickier at same time.

Place self in between third chair and chaise lounge.  Bend a knee on chaise, place crutches to the side out of your way, but within easy reach, stretch out to third chair, pick up mug of tea.

Transfer weight to left side and tea to left hand.

Carefully placing tea on coaster by the bed and turning it gently, the mug, so that the handle faces inward for easy accessibility.

Sigh with relief that you did not spill tea.

Hobble back to kitchen, retrieve peas that have been re-freezing from the last time you placed them on swollen ankle, toss peas to bed by heap of pillows.

Then make the executive decision to pee because once you are down, with frozen peas on ankle and hot tea in mug, you aren’t going to want to move any further.

While in bathroom look at self and do not get angry at self or situation.

“I love you and I forgive you”.

Try not to barf in sink.

Wash hands, dry, turn off lights.

Move self to bed and collapse, carefully in nest of pillows, lifting leg up and settling foot atop three fluffed up pillows.  Then drape gently with bag of frozen peas.

Watch Game of Thrones and call it a night.

Oh God Damn it

June 6, 2014

I cannot believe that this happened.

My friend said, “let me know when you’ve stopped beating yourself up, ‘k, you didn’t do anything wrong.”


I didn’t.

But I have to say it feels a little like punishment or God laughing at me, you know, after the post I wrote last night about losing my health or ability to walk or ride my bike or work, to now not be able to ride bike, work, or walk.


Is it odd?

Or is it God?


I just got home from the ER at Kaiser on Geary.



Thank you.

I haven’t had to ask for this much help in a while.

All because I wanted to be pro-active, I was scheduled to work 9a.m-5p.m. tomorrow, then a night shift, from 7:30p.m.-11:30p.m.

I figured I was alright with that, it’s a long day, but just one baby and then the weekend and you know, or maybe you don’t know, maybe it’s just me, that fear of not having enough money, especially when you, and by that I mean, me, thinks that I have to make more because I am going to need a new computer soon.

I had it all planned out.

“Do you know what God does when you make plans,” a friend said to me years ago after listening to my elaborate story, “he laughs.”

I didn’t get it then.

Oh, do I now.

Yes, I do.

I was going to come home, park my bicycle, hop on my scooter and drive down to the gas station, top her off so that I could ride it to work tomorrow and not worry about taking my bicycle home at 11:30 p.m. at night from 19th and Noe.

I figured I could even scoot out between the hours of 5p.m. and 7:30 pm and go see some folks at 2900 24th Street.

I just wanted to top off the gas.

That’s it.

Just a tiny little thing.

The scooter had not been ridden in four days, so of course it wasn’t interested in starting on the first kick.

I gave it a touch of gas, pulled out the choke, stuck my foot on the kick-start and plunged down.

Something in my ankle gave.

It felt like it folded over.

I screamed and saw not just white, but blue-white, total white out tinged with blue.

I heaved trying to catch my breath.

A minute, five passed, I don’t know.

I could hear the housemates boyfriend in the hallway, just holler for help.

I breathed in.

I am ok.

I put my foot down.


Ok, so I am not exactly ok, but I am gonna be just fine, just need a moment to catch my breath.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“Breathe,” the text from my friend the cab driver said.

I responded from the bed in the ER, “thanks for the reminder, I had forgotten.”


I had.

I grabbed the gate to the entrance way and steadied myself, I gingerly put some weight down, ok, it’s twisted, maybe sprained, but it’s going to be ok.

Next thought.

I guess I won’t be riding the scooter to work tomorrow morning.


Second thought as I approached the scooter and slipped onto the saddle, “hmm, I don’t know if I am going to be able to ride my bike either.”

I straddled the scooter, pushed forward with my solid foot, and popped it off the middle stand, put it in neutral and pushed her back into the entry way.

I got off.

Pulled the keys out of the ignition and hobbled into my studio.

I stopped at bathroom.

Ibuprofen right now.

600 mg in the maw.

Went to the freezer, dumped tray of ice into plastic bag.

Sat down at the table, pulled the chair over and put my foot up on the seat.

God, that looks odd, I thought to myself, why does it look like that?

I pulled off my shoe, gasping a little, yeowch that hurts more than I was expecting.

My sock was distended, why is my sock all weird like that?





Oh fuck.

I almost threw up on myself when I saw what my ankle looked like.

I immediately called my housemate.

She got me set up, water, dish towel to wipe off the tears and eyeliner that was gushing down my face.

When I got home tonight and was picking up a little, I grabbed that dish towel and it was drenched, soaked through with tears.

Her sweet daughter told me about her twisted ankle and then her mom helped me call Kaiser, my insurance people through Healthy San Francisco, thank God I have that, thank God again.

I also called my friend the cab driver, who couldn’t catch half my conversation, the reception on my phone listing in and out.

“All I heard was “emergency room” and then the call dropped,” he told me later as he was driving me to the ER.

My house mate gave me more ibuprofen.

My friend the cab driver said I am on the way.

The advice nurse says, RICE.

I am doing it all and freaking out about not being able to go into work tomorrow.

That’s what I am worried about.



The ER was not busy, thank God, although it felt like a comedy of errors as I was sitting in the waiting room being handed forms to sign, and the intake receptionist does what?


That’s right.

She dropped a clip board on my ankle.

I just about passed out.

I actually started to laugh, it couldn’t be any stranger or, I am sure in hindsight, funny.

Par for the course.

Right a blog about getting injured and not being able to work and watch self getting injured and not being able to work.

“You are one tough lady,” doctor, the handsome doctor, I should add, said to me.

I told them I was not able to have any narcotic pain killers, that I was an addict and alcoholic and sober over nine years.

I bawled my head off.

I came close to passing out when the technicians in the x-ray lab took my x-rays and had to turn my ankle to get the shot.

There is good news.

Great news, really.

My ankle is not broken.

I still have to go back and see a specialist in the Podiatry Department at Kaiser and the doc said no weight on it for a week, no working, no, no, no.

“You’re a nanny?” He asked.

“How old,” he continued.

“16 months and 26 months,” I replied, starting to cry again.

(shit fuck motherfucker, crying now)

“And what about not bearing any weight on it for seven to ten days says you’re capable of working?” He asked bluntly. “Do you think you’ll be able to pick them up and carry them around on your crutches?”

Then he apologized, rubbing his weary, red rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m tired, I know you’re sober, but I could use a drink, a hot bath and my bed,” I have been on duty way too long,” he concluded. “I should not be saying that,” he looked around to see if there was a patient next to us.

“Nope, I get it,” I smiled, “big glass of red wine, hot bath, you deserve it.”

“And you should get someone to rub your feet,” he added.

So, with that in mind, since I wrote about getting hurt and then did.

I say, let this be the best thing ever.

Let this experience lead to amazing things.

I am going to let myself heal.

I will not worry about money.

I will get a foot rub from a sexy man.

Hell, from my boyfriend, I mean, I was supposed to go on a date Saturday after my commitment in Noe Valley.

Sure, it’s a first date and I found out he’s FOURTEEN YEARS my junior, but fuck it.

Why not.

Hey, you know, I know you had some dinner plans lined up, but let’s just stay in and you can rub my feet on our first date.



I am not on any narcotics.

Perhaps stunned.

Definitely out of sorts.

But alive, foot propped up, draped in an ice pack, ibuprofen at hand, and re-wrapped in its splint because my amazing nursing friend picked me up from the hospital, helped me out of my jeans (which I had thought I would have to cut off to get off) and into a worn pair of yoga pants and then re-wrapped my ankle.

I am blessed.

Think about it.

I might have gotten on my scooter and got hit by a bus, who knows what tragedy the Universe saved me from.

I am lucky.

And I know it.

I still might cry a little more tonight.

Just sayin’.

You can knock a good woman down.

But you can’t keep her down.

Here’s to tomorrow being a better day.



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