Back on my Feet

by mutteringhousewife

Many of you will know I have just gone through the fairly minor, in the scheme of things, inconvenience of having my foot in plaster for six weeks and therefore having to get about on crutches. Goodness me it’s been an interesting six weeks. Here are some of my observations.

The first is that I must have heard from every single person in the Inner West that has ever injured themselves on the lower leg. Or knows someone who has. If I ever see anyone on crutches, no matter how curious I am, I shall just mutter “tough luck” at them and move on. I have in the past had a giant neck wound, jaw to collarbone, and had no one say a word, just a horrified flick of the eyes. But someone on crutches seems to be just holding a sign saying “I’m not moving fast, so tell me all about how much better European crutches are, how long it is since your knee reconstruction, what a dangerous sport rugby seems to be, how terrific online supermarket shopping is these days (it isn’t), and how exactly your grandmother fell down the stairs”. It didn’t bother me too much, besides the unwanted human contact (character building), but I found it to be a fascinating insight into sociology. I guess because it doesn’t look life threatening and in general people want to connect, so that’s nice. I just wish the explanation of my injury could fit into one sentence, or could be printed on a small card.

My blog has come up as a suggestion for someone asking the question “how do you shower with your leg in plaster?” and the answer is that you do it on one leg. Try it some time, it’s a lot harder than it sounds. It’s also the answer to “how do you cook dinner”, “how do you use stairs”, “how do you feed the cat” and “how do you get the kids out of bed” with your foot in plaster. Actually, stairs are the worst. I can now hop down them, but the only way to get up them with your foot in plaster is on your hands and knees. It’s quite a spectacle. Also, feeding the cat on one leg results in a cat with rather a lot of kangaroo meat on his head. He didn’t seem to mind. I’m sure the kids will be relieved to be woken up with the traditional pat on the head rather than crutches to the solar plexus from now on.

The thing I have missed the most this last six weeks is being able to carry things. Any good housewife will tell you that you don’t walk anywhere in the house without something in your hand, clothes to put in the wash, rubbish, a bottle of water to tip on the head of your barking dog. There has been none of that. Anytime I wanted to fetch something I’d have to do it with a handbag around my neck, which doesn’t work for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, let me tell you. The biggest impact was that I wasn’t able to put on a wash. So I’ve had to put up with no separated washes and everything going in the dryer – it seemed to be enough of a strain on everybody to have to deal with this daily task without me shouting at them that they weren’t doing it right. The first thing I did when I tottered home from the sports doctor with my freed foot was to get myself a takeaway coffee and put on a dark wash, which is now hanging in the sunlight. I may even go soak some tea towels in Napisan in a moment.

It is going to be a bit of an effort not to get out and rejoice in the return of my foot, but I’ve used up my physio on my health insurance for the year, so I’d better take it easy. There is a noticeable difference in the sizes of my calves, but the doctor assures me that will return to normal fairly quickly, especially as I won’t be hopping any more. I think I shall go and hunt for all of my right shoes, that shouldn’t be too taxing.

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