Who
knew there were so many fun things to do when flat on one's back in bed for
three weeks and counting? How dare I complain? It hasn't been all that sunny
outside anyway -- typical Juneuary in the Pacific Northwest -- including serious monsoons,
serious gulley-washing downpours lashing the trees and sending picnic tables
and chairs flying horizontally for nearly an hour.
Ha ha ha, you poor able-bodied
people! Forgive my gallows humor.
"Deep groin pull," said
the doctor. "Aaghh," saith everyone else I repeat the diagnosis to. Both
are accurate.
I am thankful that, when I took flight over the top of my handlebars
and landed in the street (a) my face didn't hit first, (b) I'm not now a
soprano, (c) the oncoming car saw me in time to stop, and (d) apparently I was
able to execute a full twist out of a pike position for which even a stingy
panel of judges would have given me nothing lower than a 9.6! But it hurt like
hell to barely lift my right foot off the pavement, let alone walk. Walk I did,
however, four blocks home dragging my right leg Festus-like and trying to guide
a wobbly and useless bicycle.
The first week of convalescence, shooting
groin pain was so severe it brought tears to my eyes. Lifting my right leg to,
oh, walk . . . to, let's say, the bathroom? Ever encouraging, the doc said it'd
get worse before it got better. "Usually six to eight weeks," spoke
Dr. Bedside, "and not much we can do for it. Or for the rib you seem to
have broken or cracked -- doesn't really matter which, does it? Bed rest. Pain
meds. Nurse Ratched, write up a prescription for the lad, please." Exit exam
room, stage left.
"Nothing we can do" was
the lame (sorry) outcome of a trip to the doctor's office I forced myself to
make using a borrowed wheelchair via a hydraulic lift into paratransit vehicle
#1; out of the doc's office and into vehicle #2; across several blocks to X-ray;
up onto the exam table to the tune of whinnies of pain in front of an
open-mouthed technician and nurse; back out to vehicle #3 and to home where a kind neighbor managed to
extract me from the wheelchair, muscle me up five front steps, and collapse me into
bed.
Which is where this narrative began.
Bored? Complain? Moi? As I moaned softly
from time to time, I also:
- Silently cursed well-wishers
and their "It could have been worse" refrains despite the fact
that they were right.
- Stared at the ceiling
or out the window when it wasn't raining and watched happy, mobile neighbors
gather, chat, play whiffle ball and soccer, and bike off down the alley.
- Played infinite games
of solitaire on my iPad as hour after draining hour passed.
- Learned to shower
sitting on a bench that's half in and half out of the tub. (Warning: The
shower spray thingy has a mind of its own. Do not antagonize it! If you can't
reach it to get to some part of your body, just forget about it and
pretend you did.)
- Slept (a lot),
waiting in vain for the miracle cure that would see me waking from the bad
dream and bounding out of bed.
- Listened to books on
tape and read eBooks; print books required turning pages and jostling.
- Contemplated what it
would be like to be able to turn over; because of the rib damage, I couldn't
sleep either on my back or on my right side -- think fetus-like, very large
and overweight.
- Stared at the ceiling
some more and gauged the dimensions of my nine-by-ten-foot room/cave (which
direction was the nine, and which the ten?).
- Assessed the overall ambience
of a bedridden person's room -- the clutter, mussed sheets and bedspread,
bottles of meds, crumpled heating pad and extension cord, the faint stuffy
smell, a flyswatter (?), and a certain unmentionable item.
- Memorized the latest
poem I like, "O Solitude" (Keats).
Were we having fun yet? This could
depress a person. It wasn't what I'd planned for the early days of my
retirement.
But then there came breakthroughs.
Visits from the physical terrorist slowly became productive. I graduated from a
wretched gray aluminum alloy walker with defective wheels to better one -- with
a seat! (Nothing marked the extent of my situation more than the look on
visitors' faces when they'd first see me guide my flimsy, noisy walker into the
room. A silent OMG every time. Repeat visits were rare.) The walker,
however, caused shoulder pain until I was taught not to lean on it, just use it
to steady myself. At least I was out of bed from time to time.
Breakthrough #2, the drug cocktail. An
inexact science, to be sure, but helpful. Since I was unable to use narcotics,
I resorted to a mild analgesic which, along with extra-strength Tylenol and ibuprophen
allowed the pain to decrease from sharp yelps to a moderate ouch with each step.
Sleeping became more doable. Fiddling with the dosage and mostly following
instructions, things started to get better. Largely, my mood.
Breakthrough #3, a handrail
thingamajig anchored under the mattress, which gave me the leverage to pull
myself upright in bed. (The handle was even wrapped with golf club grip
leather!) This was most helpful during the night when I'd need to . . .
actually I'll skip the detailed logistics (see "unmentionable item,"
above). Suffice it to say, my "liquid throughput" apparently had not
been affected by this calamity. Let's also say that thirty years of loving
spousehood had never been so "intimate." My wonderful wife was a saint!
Breakthrough #4, the cane! After the
walker, I'd matriculated to a set of borrowed crutches. Mistake! Lacking a
cushioning pad on one side and scrunched up into my armpit on the other, the
crutches aggravated the rib injury which swelled, became even more painful, and
set back sleeping for two nights. Who knew that might happen and have warned
against it? Three guesses; the first two don't count.
Then I found I could use a cane, a
spiffy looking shiny mahogany objet d'art
handed down from my mother. The cane freed me up to travel to all sorts of
far-off, inaccessible and wondrous locales such as our upstairs master bedroom for
a visit, and out into my backyard, sitting in the sunlight watching goldfinches
and chickadees fight over the thistle feeder. I could lift myself into the
truck and be driven for long journeys through town, some for nearly an hour,
all the while marveling at everyone else's mobility.
Things improved, of course, albeit
at glacial speed. So why record this odyssey? Why bemoan my outcast fate at
this length? So readers will feel sorry for me? Of course.
But also to remind myself of what
less-abled people endure every day -- the permanently wheelchair bound or those on
crutches or confined to bed, those with chronic pain that drugs don't help, the
alone and unvisited and lonely, often with fine caregivers but who have no
loving family or friends.
I will take up my bed and walk at
some point (John 5:8), drive a car, hike a mountain trail, walk the dog, maybe
even ride a bicycle! The sun will shine again, even here. I pulled up the
blinds today and gazed at the suddenly bright-white mock orange out my window
whipping in the Juneuary wind.
This episode is for later, to reread
so I don't forget my good fortune. For now, in the meantime … oops, gotta go --
literally!
