Corporeal Afterthought

Did I just break something? I can’t remember, but I’m having a hell of a time figuring out why my right ankle aches and sways with my newfound gait. I must move through life in forward motion without a thought to that which encases my blood and bones and muscles and guts and nerves. It’s the house I live in, but it’s got dents and bruises and while I’ll be sure to fix the leak, I apparently divorce myself from my body pretty regularly. Ignore it and it will go away. Stop writing about it and it will self-actualize without direction.

But this is simply not the case. I can’t expect the poor thing to suck it up and go along without me guiding its process of healing. That would be rude.

As instructed by my amazing doctor-man, the walking boot came off after two weeks, which by my calculations was the afternoon of this past Monday. The first step was an awkard one, the front of my emaciated and atrophied ankle buckling under the hefty pressure of its host (let’s face it, sitting on your ass does not a svelt girl make) but I caught me and took my first baby steps as a 41 year old over-acheiving derby chick with more self-aspirations than is necessary but fuck it – you only go around once, right?

Immediately, a Facebook update: “WALKING!”
Immediately following, a text: “Hey No-H, wanna go for a walk?”

(side note: i have a nickname, “No-H” because i’m one of several sara/hs on my current league and former practice squad but the only one without an aitch.)

And so of course, I squeal “YES!” through the responding text message and off we went, walking Greenlake about 1/3 of the way and back making my first outing-on-real-tootsie about a mile. After which we went directly to the natural grocery store to buy nothing I needed but I wanted to feel the cool breeze of organic peaches without being crippled and over-dependent.

Day Two on the new foot found me walking to and from the bus stop and then to and from Greenlake again to get dinner with my pessimistic 16-year-old charmer for burgers.

Day Three and I’m at work in comfy Nike flip flops with a cloud cushion packing up my office and listening to my Cheap Trick station on Pandora. And the thing feels alright.

I am quickly moving forward, beyond the confines of a break to all-out “Hell Yeah” so I can have my action back. My coach asked me yesterday when I was skating again, everyone is asking me when I’m skating again. I will not know until Monday. In the meantime, I just want my leg to catch up with the rest of me because we’ve got a lot of shit to do.

But what do I really think? I think I broke my leg on April 15th, had surgery April 21st, got in a cast for five weeks ten days after surgery, had a walking boot for two weeks after that and now I’m walking without anything but a gentle Pimp Limp and no pain. So I think I’ll be slapping boots on these puppies by the end of July, I’m hoping.

And as I always welcome the opportunity to be dead wrong about that, I’ll survive with a “Um, No, Sara. Not yet” from Dr. Watt. I’ll live.