Welcome to February, which I have declared as my new beginning. It’s a logical decision, given that the amaryllis has finally bloomed and I’ve finally begun to walk.
The flowers were a gift from very dear but distant friends during the challenging period following ankle replacement. Throughout December, the bulbs stayed stubbornly stubby as I railed against a thoroughly predictable but no less difficult post-operative month.
December was both the best and the worst possible time for me to get this surgery. Best because assuming all went well, I would be walking in the spring. Worst because it’s a depressing month, made more so by twin anniversaries that remind me of loss, the shorter days, the forced cheerfulness that marks the season. I do like holiday lights, but I couldn’t go out to see them. In fact, I was restricted by a leg in a bulky cast that had to stay above my heart 90% of the time. My plans involved getting to and from the powder room. The highlight of my day was the arrival of the dog walkers.
The initial recovery was complicated by a house with too many stairs and a bumpy start with my home healthcare. Despite two months of advanced planning, I couldn’t manage to get an aide who could both tolerate dogs and help her patient when it was most needed. After just one frustrating week, the aide was replaced by an acquaintance who welcomed the opportunity to earn some money and help me out. With a couple of kids and a full-time job, she couldn’t be 24/7, but her presence at night was most welcome. She kept me from worrying about the possibility of tumbling down the stairs or dealing with a dog emergency (there were none, thank goodness).
My puppy Pepper Ann, not quite a year old, proved essential to my well-being. Even her antics, which included a tendency to snatch towels, gloves, sweaters, hats, shoes, served to entertain or at least occupy me. But she slept through the night and considering the chaos of assorted strangers and clunky equipment, she adjusted remarkably well.
December gave way to January, which included a mix of good news and frustration. The surgeon replaced the three-pound cast with a one-pound walking boot and declared I was “healing nicely.” Great. I was still crawling up the stairs to get to my bed (Believe me when I say relocating to the first floor was never an option). I couldn’t yet walk or drive. The caregiver departed and I was on my own. It’s not easy to make dinner and get the plate on the table while on a knee scooter or a walker.
On the other hand, I had people who showed up to make the all-important Trader Joe’s run or to walk the dog during our torrential rain and the two snowstorms.
During my lowest points, I used Jeremy Renner as inspiration. You may remember (or not know) that last January, the 52-year-old actor got caught under the wheels of a snowplow that weighed more than 14,300 pounds. I’ve avidly followed his recovery as he has fought his way back over the year to health and employment as an action hero. Since my aims were more modest than becoming an Avenger, I told myself I could get through the worst of it.
And I have.
Now it’s February. I received permission to wean myself off the boot and did that in one day (okay, maybe I discarded the boot instead of weaning off it. No going back now). This week, I’ve substituted a sturdy cane for the walker. I’ve been cleared to drive short distances and that’s a big deal. The rest is between me and my body–and my physical therapist.
I may be ahead of the curve, but I can’t rush this process. Ankle replacement surgery is serious. Recovery is slow.
I will get there. After all, the amaryllis are out in full force to cheer me on. Happy new year.
By any objective measurements, this past winter was a rough one. While COVID hospitalizations and deaths rose and variants threatened, while insurrectionists desecrated the Capitol, while a number of regions experienced punishing weather events, while the gap between the prudent and the reckless grew and it became apparent that a sizeable portion of the population subscribed to views that seemed rooted in the 15th century or maybe outer space–while all that was happening, I watched the gargantuan pile of snow next to my house for signs of spring.
This morning I finished off the last chunk of ice and walked around the exposed sides of my home. Heavy snows always cause some destruction and this year is no exception. A branch of the Japanese maple I planted ten years ago has been nearly severed, although I might be able to salvage it. Other plants and bushes are mangled and broken as well. Some will come back, some won’t.