peevish mama

I think my friends are afraid of me. I think they think I’m really really feeble right now. Scary feeble. Feeble. Forlorn. Frightening. There’s nothing specific that leads me to believe this. You could say I’m simply being given wide berth. Time to recover. Get my shit together. I think they’re afraid.

I can’t say I blame them. It’s spring. It’s life. Everyone is skipping, stretching, going about business as usual and then some. I’m just the beat up orange pylon tipped over on the side of the busy road.

And let’s face it. Injury. Illness. It makes us uncomfortable. It renders the other less easy to predict, less easy to understand. Is she up for a visit? Is she tired? Does she want to be left alone? Is she hurting? Is she angry? Is she tainted? Is she different than before? All fair.

I would avoid me too, if I could.

Yesterday Dash and I snuck out for a movie. As I navigated the sloped, carpeted aisle with my crutches, my sunglasses slipped down my nose and I had to leave them. The fact that I had them on at all in a darkened theater is ludicrous enough, but such is the dilemma of a person on crutches. You can walk (sort of) but you can’t use your hands. And if you are using your hands, you can’t walk. Hands or feet, but not both.

I spotted a handicapped seat. Actually it was a big spot for a wheelchair and a handicapped companion seat. It is entirely possible that there was more leg room in that seat, but I didn’t want it. It was an irrational, visceral and entirely immature reaction. I am not handicapped. Those seats are not for me. Those seats. Who am I kidding? 

It’s temporary, but I am indeed handicapped. I can’t move with anything approximating grace or speed. I can’t hold anything in my hands and change locations at the same time. I even spend most of my day in a contraption. A CONTRAPTION! How about that? It’s a machine, a Continuous Passive Motion machine, that bends and extends my leg over and over. I’m supposed to use it for six hours a day. Sexy times. The harness that supports my leg is covered in a pearly gray synthetic wool substance, like the fleece of some superfly celestial sheep. I’m obsessed with this faux pelt because when I mentioned to Doctor Dash that I was glad they changed it between patients, he gave me look that I can only describe as a heartbreaking coalescence of dubiousness and pity. The machine itself is total Miami Vice – turquoise, fuscia, white and yellow – made from the same plastic as Crockett and Tubb’s speed boat.

And the best thing, the best thing about my knee bender, joint juicer, flexor-in-crime is its name: LEGASUS. As if I will soar to the heavens once I’m done with this penurious convalescence. Whoever thought that up deserves a certificate. Maybe even a ribbon.