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| Yes, that's my left foot. |
About
two weeks ago, after a lovely visit with friends and hot chocolate with whipped
cream in a coffee bar, I slipped in dog shit and broke my left ankle. I was alone,
in the dark, on a wide street with no other pedestrians around to notice my
predicament. My high tolerance for pain enabled me to get up, walk two blocks
to my car (stopping at a street fountain to wash the shit off my hand) and
drive home using the clutch. Thinking it was only sprained, I wrapped the ankle, took some Advil, and had a bit
of wine.
Three
days later I realized I needed x-rays, and they revealed broken bones on the
inside and outside of my ankle, requiring surgery. I knew I was going to have
to pay for private service since I don’t have Italian health care set up yet
(and probably would not do this sort of surgery in a public hospital anyway)
but I needed to get it done quickly and with a minimal hospital stay. Luckily our
doctor’s office came to the rescue with a very experienced American orthopedic
surgeon specialized in hand and foot surgery and she got me into a private
Catholic hospital close to home. I had
the surgery the next day and spent only
that night in the hospital. In another few days I get to switch from a cast to
a boot and my healing is progressing nicely so far, plus I’m down to only using
Advil for pain. Big sigh of relief, right?
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| After surgery |
Not
quite. If I didn’t have two fantastic women who help me manage things at home,
who know and understand my mother and her needs, and who were willing to take
turns staying overnight so we had constant coverage, I don’t know what I would
have done. In part you just don’t realize how much you do as a caretaker until
you can’t do it anymore. You cannot even take something out of the fridge and
get it to the counter when you have to walk with crutches.
For
some time my mother had refused to let me order her a rolling walker with a
seat for when she was tired of pushing it around. Now I realized I had to get
one as I couldn’t risk her falling, and I decided I also needed a stool with
wheels to roll around, at least in the kitchen. I also went online to buy cat
litter, and stock up on grocery items that are heavy to carry. We tried
ordering home
delivery from a local restaurant for the first time and were
disappointed by mediocre poke bowls. Our helpers managed all the rest and so we
got through these two weeks with only one slow-motion late night fall as my
mother was heading to bed.
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| Better stick with Italian food. |
We
also had our Roman friends come to the rescue with a Sunday afternoon visit and
a Christmas lunch feast, picking up our spirits considerably. My sister and her
family cheered us on through FaceTime calls and it made them not seem so far
away. Even though my mother would regularly forget what had happened to me, she
started to catch on when she would see the cast on my foot, and her patience
and concern has been of great comfort.
Now
that I am facing the grim reality of not being able to drive or walk without
crutches for weeks, not to mention months of physical therapy, I realize that
the hard part is probably yet to come. I don’t know what it will be like for us
to be constantly in each other’s company at home, to not go out to eat, or just
for a drive or an errand. We’ll have to take taxis for important things like
doctor appointments and blood tests (coming up in January) and I guess just
learn to manage as best we can.
The
research on the toll caretaking takes suggests that it’s not enough to carve
out a bit of down time, to relax and take a break. I thought my twice weekly gyrotonic exercise classes were my sanctuary, keeping me fit in body and mind. I learned
to do more than errands while my helpers were with my mother, to go for walks,
to see an exhibit, or shopping. I was even plotting to take my laptop to a café
one afternoon and work on the young adult novel I am writing, which seemed
truly luxurious. For now, that will all have to wait. I have to focus on
healing, and getting through the tough weeks ahead.
