This is a difficult time. Everywhere I look there are people doing things that I want to do, but can't. People getting off the bus to go to the gym. Locking up their bikes outside the cinema. Running down the beach into the sea. Wandering the shops without a plan. Going hill walking. Dancing at ceilidhs. Being spontaneous. Being mobile. Its the proverbial woman who can't get pregnant - seeing pregnant women and small children everywhere. Difference is that, should the woman be desperate enough, she can always consider snatching a child (I say consider - not actually carry it out) ... Snatching someone's legs on the other hand...
And on top of all of this, every day I get asked the same questions by well meaning people,. Generous comments on the speed of my progress by friends and colleagues, and every day I have to think of some anodyne friendly response. Instead of screaming that I am absolutely and totally sick of it all. That it's now more than ten months and my foot is still sore every day. That I still go to physio twice a week while working full time with a team of eight people. That I still suffer the indignity of pre-op clinics that last three times the length of the actual operation. That my knee hurts within minutes of setting off on my bike, and doesn't settle for hours afterwards. That I am still not independently mobile. That I still haven't sorted out my insurance claim, never mind any compensation.
And with those angry and pointless (and self pitying) thoughts this afternoon, I picked up my keys and bag, stepped carefully over my stick, and went - stickless - to Scotmid. Staggering slightly, but not limping, I made it. Bought a paper and some juice and walked cautiously home. Analysed another new pain in the left side of my ankle, and experimented on how best to carry my bag. Strange how heavy a litre of juice is when you don't have your stick.
I guess this journey was a triumph. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It just illustrates how far I actually have to go before I get some semblance of my old life back. And how much work I'll have to do in the meantime. (And the thought that we never discuss - that I wont actually get it back at all).
And on top of all of this, every day I get asked the same questions by well meaning people,. Generous comments on the speed of my progress by friends and colleagues, and every day I have to think of some anodyne friendly response. Instead of screaming that I am absolutely and totally sick of it all. That it's now more than ten months and my foot is still sore every day. That I still go to physio twice a week while working full time with a team of eight people. That I still suffer the indignity of pre-op clinics that last three times the length of the actual operation. That my knee hurts within minutes of setting off on my bike, and doesn't settle for hours afterwards. That I am still not independently mobile. That I still haven't sorted out my insurance claim, never mind any compensation.
And with those angry and pointless (and self pitying) thoughts this afternoon, I picked up my keys and bag, stepped carefully over my stick, and went - stickless - to Scotmid. Staggering slightly, but not limping, I made it. Bought a paper and some juice and walked cautiously home. Analysed another new pain in the left side of my ankle, and experimented on how best to carry my bag. Strange how heavy a litre of juice is when you don't have your stick.
I guess this journey was a triumph. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It just illustrates how far I actually have to go before I get some semblance of my old life back. And how much work I'll have to do in the meantime. (And the thought that we never discuss - that I wont actually get it back at all).
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