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Walking Words
The Body: "Only" A Sprain

Phase I: The Fall.
June started as a productive month for me; Donald and I were organizing our kitchen, for which he had just built cabinets, and I was catching up on projects at work. Then came Friday the 13th. I was carrying a large basket of laundry to our bedroom, and as I stepped down into the room, my foot landed not on the floor but on a shoe. My left foot rolled to the side, and I went down hard, the laundry basket beneath me. The pain in my foot was intense. I screamed. The scream began because of the pain but continued out of anger, anger at my stupidity, at my assumption that I could step blindly into space and come out unscathed.

Phase II: Denial.
The night of the 13th I went to bed assuming (hoping) that all would be well in the morning. The morning found me at Crystal Run's Urgent Care office in Rock Hill. My ankle was x-rayed because the doctor was convinced it was broken; in fact, she told me it was broken, and was surprised that it was "only" sprained. I was given a lace-up brace, crutches, and an appointment to see an orthopedist in five days.

In spite of the obvious — my entire foot resembled an eggplant in color, size, and shape — I still was in denial. After all, the foot was "only" sprained, right? Mentally, I remained in the active, productive mode with which I had begun the summer. I attended a concert at Bethel Woods, a musical in Manhattan, several get-togethers with friends, continued going to work, and hosted a large party at my house, all in the week following the injury. I crutched around until my palms were blistered (now they are calloused). I did not put weight on my foot, I put it up on ice every evening, and it did feel better, even though the bruising and swelling increased. Life was sort of normal, and I was looking forward to soon storing the crutches in the closet.

Five days after the accident I visited the orthopedist. He, like the doctor at Urgent Care, told me that it was "only" sprained. I was advised to resume normal activities, putting weight on the foot carefully, and to elevate and ice it at night. This was just what I wanted to hear. Still in denial, I probably followed his suggestions too enthusiastically, as several days later I re-injured my ankle.

Phase III: Anger.
I am not a good patient. I do not like to rely on people for basic needs, like carrying dishes to the table or a cup of tea to my chair. I hate sitting with my foot up, seeing all that I cannot reach or do. Denial changed to anger, and with anger came recklessness. I pushed my body forward without regard for its limitations. I fell a lot. Stairs and doors were my biggest obstacles, and the two together were disastrous. I found that balancing on crutches while holding open a door and hopping down or up a step toppled me like Humpty Dumpty about fifty percent of the time. My arms and legs were bruised in places unrelated to the original injury. I was at war with my body, which is to say, I was at war with myself.

Phase IV: Acceptance?
I realized that my new emotional strategy — anger — was working no better than denial had. I decided to accept my injury rather than punishing my body. This tactic lasted for about a week. I sat with my foot up on ice, working or reading. When I was up and about, I tried to be slow and thoughtful. I was afraid of hurting my foot again. Already I was into week three and nowhere near walking. I no longer trusted myself.

Instead of beating myself up, physically and mentally, I decided to act, to seek a professional opinion, one separate from the doctor who had advised me to resume normal activities. My health insurance offers a service called "Nurseline," a phone number to call with questions for a nurse, so I decided to begin there. The nurse with whom I spoke told me that she thinks I tore ligaments or tendons or broke a bone. She recommended that I not walk and that I see a new orthopedist. I made an appointment with a recommended orthopedist in Albany for ten days from the day I called. I am impatient; I want the appointment today. I want to walk, to resume a "normal" life, an active life. I am failing at acceptance. I am anti-Zen.

Phase V: Perspective.
I realize that in a few months I should be walking again, and by now, at age 58, I understand that a few months is no time at all. Also I know that a sprained ankle is, in the great scheme of possible injuries, quite minor (thus the word "only"), so my inability to handle it with grace and humor is, to me, surprising. Impatience is, apparently, more natural to me than acceptance. I still fight, push, and fall. I have a spectacular bruise on my leg which I show off to friends. Am I punishing myself for stepping blindly into space? How does one reach acceptance? How does one allow oneself to heal?

To be continued . . .



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