My Evening in a Wheelchair
Disguising oneself as the Other can yield useful information about the world. It used to be a big thing in the 1980s for a newsanchor to dress up like a homeless person and do an expose on how the homeless are treated on the streets of New York City. Tyra Banks and Amy Sedaris have both donned fat suits to call attention to fat hatred. Eddie Murphy slathered on some PanCake and learned that “white people give each other stuff.” (Okay, that was a comedy sketch for SNL….) Last night I spent a couple hours wheeling myself around the grocery store. It was enlightening and frustrating.
What did I learn?
First of all, the parking lot is a dangerous place. In the wheelchair, I am significantly shorter than my statuesque 5’4″, which means I am invisible to anyone driving an SUV. Given that many shoppers in this particular mall don’t know the difference between a parking lot and a highway, wheeling myself to the front door was like playing a life-and-death version of Frogger. Not fun.
I mentioned that I am invisible, and yet I am simultaneously conspicuous. Children stopped and stared. Now, there have been times when I was the lone black person in an entire supermarket (hello, Avalon, NJ!); so being gawked at by children is nothing new to me. But now I was eye-to-eye with the little buggers. And I could see them trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
The white children eyed me silently as their caregivers ushered them away. The non-white kids were more relaxed. As my mom and I headed down the cleaning aisle, we encountered a small black family. The mother told her son to move aside so I could pass. When I rolled by them, her three year old held up his hand for a high five, which I happily gave him. The older boy asked me what happened to my foot. I explained that I was in a car accident and broke it. He then inquired whether it hurt and whether I’d called the police. Later, in the ice cream aisle, a Latina about 8 years old said, “Excuse me,” to get into the freezer in front of me. She was the ONLY person in the store to do so.
Things I found obnoxious when I was ambulatory are amplified in my wheelchair bound state. I speak here of loud cell phone conversations. One woman practically chased me past the salad dressings, her voice shrill in my ear, talking about the standardized testing in her school district. I could not wheel away fast enough. Finally, I stopped dead and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ in Heaven!” The woman was right behind me, close enough to push my chair if she wanted to. Really? Would she have followed me that closely if I had been walking?
Yeah, personal space? In the wheelchair I had none. People cut me off with their carts, zoomed past me only to stop short right in front of me, decided that they had to reach their arms in front of my nose to get some cottage cheese. At one point I was caught in a traffic jam in front of one of the aisles and a crotchety old man yelled at me to move it along, like the wheelchair was imbued with the magical power to travel through solid matter.
In the bread aisle, two biddies pushed their cart directly at me in some Aged vs. Handicapped game of supermarket chicken. Yeah, I blinked. I wasn’t gracious about it either. I said to my mother, “They’re old. They don’t have long on this earth. I’ll let them get their food first.”
I managed to get everything on my list. Of course, the handicapped checkout lane (only one) was closed. I suppose, if I’d been alone, that I would’ve called the manager. But my mom was with me so she dealt with the cashier.
So, in general, going to the grocery in a wheelchair is a pain in the ass. Will I do it again? Hell yes, until I am strong enough to walk unaided. First of all, when I asked my family members to do my grocery shopping for me, there was far too much editorializing of my shopping list for my comfort. (Sometimes my mother “decides” I don’t need a candy bar, or that I don’t really want the item that’s on sale. I’ve ended up with some expensive but un-fun groceries). And perhaps my repeated presence will help educate the folks at my local supermarket not to be such dicks all the time. Hope springs eternal.
Another small triumph: last night I crutched (as opposed to wheeled) into my apartment building for the first time since the week of the accident.
As of Yesterday
I am a hobbler! I was given the okay to start “limited weight bearing” in the cam walker with crutches. I had my first walking session in physical therapy and I have to admit that I am some kind of hobbling genius. People were coming up to me in the street, asking me if I’d been hobbling all my life. “I hobbled quite extensively in infancy and early childhood, but I haven’t had much occasion to practice over the years,” I replied, modestly. They were taken aback at my lack of rigorous training. “Well, clearly you were born to it. Talent like that doesn’t lie dormant for long. We can’t wait to see what feats you perform on the stairs next time.” Neither can I.
Progress
It’s been six weeks since the operation, eight weeks since the accident. I know you’re all wondering what’s going on with the foot.
I still can’t walk. I mean, I’m still not allowed to walk. I have no idea if I’m physically unable to walk, although chances are if my doctor says on Thursday that I can walk, I probably can walk right now. But I will not attempt to walk until the doctor tells me to, because the last thing I want to do is break or strain something and be laid up again for the rest of the summer.
I had my first physical therapy session last week. The training is limited right now, since I cannot walk, but the exercises did kick my ass a little. The ice and the massage were heavenly though. I will happily kick my own ass daily if someone can promise me a massage at the end of the session.
My foot doesn’t hurt anymore. It just feels weird, like I can feel the screws inside, or I can feel the scabs pulling at the incision point. In general, it feels a little like the aftershock of hitting one’s funnybone. Painkillers don’t help with that, but exercise and elevation seem to lessen it.
I’m slowly regaining my primate birthright. Bipedalism may be a few days down the road, but I was able to pick a spoon off the floor with my toes last night. Whoot!
News
Three important things were supposed to happen this week: Sexy date on Monday, job interview on Tuesday, doctor’s visit on Thursday.
Alas, there was no sexy date on Monday. Ichi, my latest suitor, had to stay home and take care of things. So, I spent the weekend at home, alone, while friends and family called me and told me all about the many burgers they ate. I have not eaten a cheeseburger since the drive home from Boston the day after the accident. Those of you who know me well can imagine what torture it was for me to hear tales of faraway burgers. I consoled myself with lime-flavored tortilla chips and nacho cheese. Cold comfort. (To forestall any hateration, I must emphasize that Ichi did call me several times over the weekend, and we talk on the phone for a couple hours every day. He’s very nice). I will probably not have a sexy date for a long time. Ichi’s job obligations will end just when I need to return to work.
The job interview went very well. I have no idea whether I will get the job. But I didn’t say anything I didn’t want to say and I didn’t leave out anything I wanted to say. I did impress them on a few points. I hope to hear from them soon. (I also found out that they use the same health insurance as my current job; so I wouldn’t have to switch doctors if I get hired). I really do hope I get the job, because it seems like I can be creative and grow professionally in that position, as opposed to the dead-end job I have now. And the pay is better.
My foot emerged from its cast this morning and saw its shadow, which means at least 2 more weeks of non-walking. This, of course, means at least one week of crawling up and down the stairs in my apartment building. The good news is that I can finally wash the entire foot. (Once I find the adapter for my camera, hideous pictures will be emailed to all who wish them. I will not post them here, for the sake of small children, and for my own desire to remain remotely attractive to certain people with whom I would like some sexy dates). I still have to shower in the chair, and, of course, I can’t put any weight on my foot.
Physical therapy starts next week. I’m glad I have so many prescription painkillers left. I predict it will hurt somewhat.
The Dark Side
The fiberglass cast came off today and was replaced by this lovely brace:
My right foot looks like Darth Vader. It’s kind of awesome. Like I’m slowly becoming a dark overlord from the feet up.
I saw my raw foot for the first time since the accident. Yeesh. It’s hideous! It’s about 14 colors, ranging in reddish yellow (from the disinfectant goo) to a greenish brown (my natural undertone) to a grey-purple (on the site of the ligament damage) to black (a terrible bruise on my heel and the scabs under the stitches). My calf was as useless as a bag of water suspended on a stick. But what it lacks in muscle tone it more than makes up in hair. My right leg: Sith Lord on the outside, Yeti on the inside.
The nurse pulled out my stitches and the sensation crawled my blood. In reality, it was no more painful than electrolysis, but I’d already identified my foot as especially vulnerable and tender. So, each pull of the tweezer made me flinch and yelp. YES, I am a big squeamish baby when it comes to pain. When the doctor came back he had to lower the chair because I was feeling lightheaded.
The prognosis is good. The foot is healing well. It’s clearly stronger. I can flex it, which I could not do at all before the surgery. I still cannot walk on it for 4 more weeks, but I can take the cast off to sleep and to bathe, which makes me so very happy. (It should also be a relief to a certain gentleman whose shin got seriously abraded by the old cast).
I Feel My Luck Could Change
I went on a date yesterday. A bona fide date with a bona fide man. He is the same man from the house date last week. We saw Iron Man. I had a fabulous time. It was the first time I’d left the house since the accident for something other than a doctor’s visit or teaching. He pushed me around in the wheelchair, let me rest my casted leg on his knee during the movie, and adjusted my crutches. He installed a wireless router in my apartment. So, for those who were worried, no he’s not a cast fetishist.
In other news, I got called for a job interview in two weeks. It’s an assistant director position at a local college. It’s the kind of work I had hoped to do at Nearby Women’s College and the pay is better. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I get it at the salary I need. I promise to treat you to dessert if I land the job.
Finally, I’ll be seeing the doctor this week for an assessment of my foot. It feels almost like Groundhog Day, since what my foot does after it emerges from the cast will determine how many more weeks of crutching I have ahead of me. I hope the foot’s been healing properly. (Although, to be honest, I was on the verge of tears halfway through the movie).
Sexy Cast
I have a date tomorrow. Apparently the cast is a man-magnet. The gentleman in question had been non-committal at first, and indicated that he might have some free time for get-togethers “after June” when his schedule opened up. When he found out I got my foot smashed up in a car accident, he called with advice and consolation. Of course, no one can talk to me for an extended period of time without being completely captivated. And so, he will be driving up here to make me pancakes for breakfast and curried coconut shrimp for lunch.
I Did Not Die
I survived the surgery. I have a shiny new cast which is significantly heavier than the old one. Pouring rain made negotiating my way with the crutches a little difficult. I have taken the first of many percosets, so far to no avail. Foot hurts and tingles like it’s asleep, but I was told it’s just the local anaesthesia. I was also sedated, and went down as soon as the anaesthetist told me that she was going to give me a “cocktail.” (“Here comes the supernatural anaesthetist/ If he wants you to snuff it, all you have to do is puff it/ He’s such a fine dancer.”) Next thing I knew, I was in recovery, being told to wiggle my toes.
Two titanium screws now hold my foot together. No walking for 6 weeks, after which I will be fitted with a removable aircast. I need to get some sharpies. A certain member of my family is not unlike Jigglypuf in her penchant for drawing on people. My new cast is like a blank canvas to her.
Cruel World
Don’t let the problems of this world drive you slowly out of your mind
Just smile at the problem and say, “It bes that way sometimes.”
My surgery is set for Monday afternoon. As my mom wheeled me into my apartment after yet another afternoon spent in a doctor’s office, I found this note from my management company stuck in my door:
To: All Tenants
Please be advised that we have scheduled a complete modernization/upgrade of the elevator which will commence on Thursday, May 22, 2008.
Therefore, no one will be allowed to use the elevator during this time. We anticipate this work to take approximately 8 to 10 weeks.
Soon I will be a prisoner in my own home. The great irony in all this is that I didn’t really want to go to Boston. I was going to cancel, and stay home, in bed, playing on the computer and watching Law and Order reruns on USA. But then I thought, oh, I should go out and do something different for a change and stop being lazy and isolated. Now I get to spend the next 8 weeks in bed, playing working on the computer, watching Law and Order reruns on USA.
I guess I have until May 22 to go on dates. Don’t want to invite suitors to my apartment too soon. Last time I did that, well, nuff said.
Foot Update
The very crucial bone in my foot is shattered in 4 or 5 places. Surgery this week for sure, perhaps as soon as tomorrow night.
Update: My surgery was rescheduled for Monday. I got a battery of pre-op tests done this afternoon. I wiped out spectacularly trying to get into the hospital. My mother feels terribly guilty for letting me fall, but I told her that today’s was just the first of many during my invalid phase.
Recalling some of the diagnosis from my cat scan results, I’ve done some internet research on my fracture. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
From emedicine.com:
Fractures of the navicular body
Fractures of the [navicular] body are commonly associated with other injuries of the midtarsal joint. Sangeorzan et al categorized navicular body fractures into 3 types, as follows:
Type 1 is a coronal fracture with no dislocation.
Type 2 is a dorsolateral to plantomedial fracture with medial forefoot displacement.
Type 3 is a comminuted fracture with lateral forefoot displacement and carries the worst prognosis.
All navicular body fractures with 1 mm or more of displacement require open reduction and internal fixation.
Guess which type I have? Yes, that’s right, type 3. What does that mean? Well, if there are no complications during the surgery, I’m looking at 6 weeks at least of non-weight-bearing cast-wearing.
Charismatic Megafauna by Quiconque 